


Velocity

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Island, F/M, Speed AU, but a reimagining of the Speed universe if our favorites were in this situation, in which oliver is a cop and felicity is on an ill-fated bus, this is not a note for note rewrite of the Speed script
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  <i>There's a bomb on a bus. Once the bus goes 50 miles an hour, the bomb is armed.  If it drops below 50, it blows up. What do you do?</i>  AKA, the Olicity <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0111257/">Speed</a> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: Huge, _huge_ thanks to all the tumblr users who encouraged this insanity. ;) And to callistawolf, carogables, dettiot, iamangstville, jomarchfwf, mersayseh, and youguysimserious, all of whom read and offered feedback on this monster as it grew like a freaking radioactive weed. You guys are the best, and I would not have been able to finish this monster without you. :)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: the characters belong to DC, the premise belongs to 20th Century Fox Film Corp.
> 
> ART WORK: Huge thanks to [magda1102](http://magda1102.tumblr.com/post/124841001830/velocity-by-machaswicket-theres-a-bomb-on-a-bus) for the beautiful cover art!

 

The downside of commuting via his motorcycle is that Oliver can’t check incoming texts while he’s riding. It’s a minor downside, to be sure, and one that is far outweighed by the adrenaline rush of zipping past cars on the freeway at impossible speeds, sweeping around traffic jams, and generally having more fun than should be entirely legal on city streets.

Still, Oliver’s an impatient guy, and if there’s information that someone feels he should have, he wants it _now_ so he can fix whatever the problem is.

Like, for instance, hostage situations, or bomb threats, or terrorist attacks -- anything that could get Oliver and the rest of SCPD’s SWAT team called in. Because the SWAT team doesn’t work typical shifts out of one precinct, accepting cases as they come up like most other cops; they’re called in whenever there’s a major situation anywhere in Starling City. Which is why Oliver’s phone is practically an extension of him at this point. If something comes up, either his partner, Tommy, or their sergeant will call, plus Oliver’s pretty sure he managed to get the SCPD’s official feed running in the background all the time.

Well, _kind_ of sure.

He hasn’t ever gotten any relevant alerts, or any other indication that it’s actually working correctly, but there _is_ a little “SCPD” icon on his phone. And he won’t admit it to anyone else, but he loves that the app’s icon is a little gold detective’s shield.

Oliver never imagined himself here when he was an overindulged, selfish boy. But the police academy had managed to instill the kind of discipline and responsibility that growing up wealthy had, well, _not_. Becoming a cop -- it’s the only thing he’s ever had to earn himself, with his own sweat and determination. And he’s more proud of being a cop than he’s ever been of anything in his life.

Even on shitty days that require him to be up and moving at an early hour that he would have _hated_ a few years ago. Because today’s a training day. The entire squad is meeting at the precinct, then heading out to train at the fire department’s facility outside the city. Where they can blow shit up without panicking civilians.

Oliver _loves_ these kinds of training sessions, so he’s actually doing his level best not to be late.

Still, he’s going to need to stop for coffee, and as he nears the Starbucks on Adams, he can feel the buzz of _more_ incoming texts against his abdomen, where his phone is tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket. He hates not being able to check his messages until he’s off the bike.

When Oliver reaches Starbucks and digs out his phone, he’s already rolling his eyes when he sees Tommy’s name. Of course, _of course_ , his partner is chattering away at him about total nonsense, and then placing a coffee order, like the Ducati has _cupholders_.

Tommy Fuckin’ Merlyn. Such a smartass.

Oliver digs out his wallet and orders. Once he settles at a small table by the window to gulp down his black coffee (two sugars), he takes a carefully framed picture of his cup with the bike in the background. The dark green of the Starbucks logo really picks up the soothing forest shade of his bike -- he should instagram that shit. If he knew _how_ to instagram anything.

Instead, he attaches the picture to a text that says, _Get your own. Mine’s delicious._

_Asshat_. Tommy promptly fires back.

Snickering just a bit, Oliver opens the _Starling Telegram_ app on his phone to scan the news. The paper is so notoriously over the top that it earned itself the well-deserved nickname _Startlegram_. Still, there are a few good writers on staff. In particular, Oliver’s been reading Laurel Lance’s column the last couple months, and not just because she’s Tommy’s girlfriend.

Laurel covers crime and politics, which in Starling tend to be one and the same. And despite spending a few years blaming Laurel for the expose that brought down his parents’ company, it’s not Laurel’s fault that Robert chose to kill himself rather than face the music, or that Moira’s doing an eight-year stint at Iron Heights for embezzlement. Oliver has come to somewhat grudgingly appreciate Laurel’s stubborn affinity for the truth, and he’s grown up enough the last half-dozen years to understand that his parents made their own bad decisions.

This morning, Laurel’s got a follow-up story to an in-depth piece alleging corruption among the SCPD brass. Apparently, some of the higher-ups don’t much like to pay money to disabled cops or their widows and orphans. The whole thing makes Oliver sick -- that good people, honest cops who put their lives on the line, or who _gave their lives_ to protect this city -- the idea of those getting shafted just to keep costs down?

Disgusting.

Oliver is frowning at his phone, trying to decipher a particularly long-winded obfuscation from Chief Waller, when there’s a massive explosion maybe half a block away.

For a brief, shocked moment, Oliver sits perfectly still, trying to assimilate the sound that’s familiar to him from hours of training on a secure, remote site with whatever the fuck is going on right here in Starling. It’s obscene, hearing the concussive blast and the shattering glass here in the middle of the damn city.

Then he snaps out of his brief shock and he’s moving, shouting, “SCPD. Stay inside. Stay right here.” It’s still chaos inside the Starbucks -- screams and panicked whimpers, and that’s _without_ any of the large glass windows blowing in.

Oliver bangs through the doors, already dialing his sergeant. The panic is worse out here -- there are people running, crying. Some people are standing, staring, shocked. He has no doubt some of them are frantically calling 911, but he has a direct line to the commanding officer of the bomb squad, and he can get them scrambled more quickly than the normal protocols.

Not that he’s 100% sure it was a bomb -- could’ve been a gas leak that blew, or any one of a dozen different accidental or industrial explosions. But something in his gut is telling him this is a bomb and he needs to get to work. This, after all, is his job.

Oliver can see massive flames from the middle of the street. Not a building, then. A big truck, maybe? He’s running towards the conflagration, pushing through streams of panicked people headed in the opposite direction. He grunts at an inadvertent elbow to the gut, but doesn’t even slow down.

Digg answers on the third ring, “Don’t _even_ tell me you’re gonna be late again, Queen. I’m getting pretty tired of--”

“Explosion,” Oliver interrupts. Loudly. “Big explosion at Adams and O’Neill. Send the cavalry.”

Digg’s tone shifts from teasing to professional in seconds, but Oliver ignores his sergeant’s orders to get fire, emergency, and the bomb squad up and going.

Because he’s close enough to see the flaming wreck, now, and he slows, feeling the massive heat pouring off of the fire, making him squint and shield his face from the discomfort.

It’s a bus.

Goddammit.

Oliver is staring at the charred remains of what used to be a bus, its windows shattered, roof blown off and dragging along behind, as it slows to a stop. Flames climb high into the sky, dark grey smoke pouring off the remnants of the bus.

The _bus_. Civilians.

Jesus. He feels sick -- suddenly and viciously nauseated.

“Digg, it was a bus. There’s--” He shakes his head, trying and failing to get closer. The heat hits him like a wall, and he throws a protective arm up, using his leather jacket to shield himself. He circles the flaming wreck, glass crunching beneath his boots, the searing heat keeping him at least twenty feet back. “It was a fucking _bus_.” He’d push closer, hell, he’d pull his jacket over his head and force himself straight into the furnace, but there’s no one to rescue.

There _can’t_ be, with how the bus is completely overwhelmed by fire, flames dancing twenty feet in the air.

Fuck.

“What’d you hear?” Digg asks, and Oliver recognizes the tone -- he’s heard Digg speak this way to hundreds of witnesses over the years, his voice calm and low and intended to keep his conversational partner on task.

Oliver would resent being treated like just another witness -- he’s a fucking cop, after all -- but he’s actually a little unsteady. He doesn’t feel quite ready to answer Digg, so he turns away from the bus, tugging his brass shield out and looping the chain over his neck so it dangles on his chest. He’s scanning the crowd, skipping from one shocked, horrified face to the next, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Lots of murderous creeps like to spectate -- if it was a bomb, maybe the bomber’s here. “Move back!” he orders the few onlookers that have their cellphones out to record the carnage. “Hey, get _back!_ ”

“Queen, report,” Digg orders.

Oliver closes his eyes for a moment, pictures the coffee shop, his abandoned coffee cup. He’s pretty sure he heard the bus go by outside, noticed the familiar sound of its engine just at the edge of his consciousness. And then-- “Single explosion,” he answers. Eyewitness reports are unreliable because stress does weird shit to people’s memories. But Oliver has been trained; he’s been desensitized to loud explosions. He’s sure of his answers. “Loud. The bus is fully involved. I don’t think--” He stops, swallows hard. “No survivors.”

“Shit,” Digg mutters. “Okay. First responders should be there.”

Oliver sees the blue and red flashing lights, even if he can’t hear the sirens yet. The snapping flames and the heated air whipping around a fire this big make a surprising amount of noise. “Yeah, yeah. I see ‘em.”

“Come in and gear up,” Digg says. “Got it, Queen?”

“Sure.” Oliver can tell his voice sounds hollow. He knows he’s at least a little shocky, which is probably to be expected, but he doesn’t let himself off the hook. He’s a cop. Yeah, he was just going about his morning routine, but he’s trained for situations like this.

He’s supposed to protect people, _save_ people, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do for anyone who was on that bus. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s feeling helpless. He clears his throat, tries to sound normal. “Yes, I’ll be in soon.”

After giving a quick summary report to the cops and firefighters arriving on scene, Oliver heads for his motorcycle since there’s really nothing else he can do here. Then there’s the loud, insistent trill of a telephone ringing, and the old-school sound is so incongruous that Oliver frowns and glances around. He’s alone, so it’s not some random person with an ironic throwback ringtone.

And then he spots the payphone, bolted to the brick exterior of a convenience store. He blinks, surprised that payphones are still a thing that apparently work in the cellphone age. It looks pretty neglected -- graffiti covers the little privacy shields on either side, and the body of the phone is a dull, scratched mess. The black plastic handset has been covered in, of all things, unicorn stickers.

Oliver steps closer, but the ringing stops.

Okay, then.

He moves past the rusting, graffitti’d alcove, digging in the pocket of his cargo pants for his keys.

And the phone starts ringing again.

He’s pretty sure he’s never used a payphone in his life; he’s certainly never randomly answered a ringing payphone. Wasn’t there some terrible movie based on that premise? Something about a sniper?

Oliver scans the rooftops of the buildings around him, just in case, but doesn’t spot anything out of the ordinary. Then he turns a skeptical eye back to the ringing phone.

There’s no reason for him to answer. It’s not _his_ phone. It’s probably a wrong number, because who calls payphones?

He can come up with a thousand logical reasons to keep walking, to let the payphone ring on unanswered. But something is telling him this is important. His gut feeling is that this is _related_ to the bus explosion.

Oliver takes a breath and reaches for the handset.

& & &

Tapping a single, impatient, aqua-coated nail against the countertop, Felicity watches the barista like a hawk -- or actually just like a tired, cranky, undercaffeinated commuter who really, _really_ needs her coffee like right now so she doesn’t miss her bus.

Because Felicity’s beloved yet beleaguered Mini Cooper has been in the shop for three and a half weeks. _Three and a half weeks_. Why does body work on a car take _so_ long? That jerk in the SUV barely even hit her, but her poor Mini crumpled like a tin can.

Felicity herself was _mostly_ unscathed, save some really unattractive bruising where the seat belt held her in place, and a slight case of whiplash. Which -- damn, even a _slight_ case of whiplash sucked a lot. It took her nearly a week to be able to sleep curled up on her side the way she likes, instead of flat on her back like some sort of corpse. A cranky, uncomfortable corpse.

Whatever. She’s mostly fine now, but her Mini is still... _not_.

So it’s public transportation for Felicity, which she supports a lot in theory. Cities with healthy public transportation systems are cleaner and more efficient than sprawling, car-bound places like LA. She is totally in favor of subways and buses and all of that. Just... in her _specific_ case, it’s translated into a longer, more crowded commute. Because she lives in the transitional neighborhood not too far outside the Glades, which is only about a twenty-five minute drive in her Mini, but now she’s looking at an hour on a good day: thirty-three minutes (give or take) on the bus, a transfer to the subway for four stops, and then a six block walk to the Palmer Technologies building.

God, she misses her car.

The silver lining is that she’s discovered this pretty cute coffee shop on her way to the bus stop. Felicity _loves_ coffee, the stronger the better, and this place is all rough wood and sleek aluminum, with baristas who make really kickass drinks. Oh, and they have _pastries_.

Good thing she’s been walking like five times as much as she used to, because she’s working her way through the pastry case, morning by morning. In fact, the raspberry scone she’s already started nibbling is the only thing keeping her from leaning across the counter to see if her drink is next. Which would be rude. She’ll just... focus on this fruity deliciousness and wait patiently for someone to _go actually find a cow to milk_ , because what is _taking_ so--

“I’ve got a triple skinny latte for Felicia,” the barista calls.

Felicity pounces, not even bothering to correct the name mixup. As long as her order is correct (or, hey, at least drinkable and caffeinated), they can call her anything they want. She usually adds sugar, but she’s got her phone in her hand to check the Starling City Transit Authority app. No time for fine tuning her coffee -- the bus will be here in about forty-five seconds, and the stop is like half a block away.

“Shit!” she yelps, nearly bowling over a brunette in a suit -- with, wow, gorgeous hair -- as she skitters towards the door. And why did she wear these cute Mary Janes today? Sure, they look _awesome_ with her magenta dress, but she can’t really _run_ in them.

Moving as fast as she can without spilling sweet, hot coffee all over her hand, Felicity books it to the bus stop, waving frantically. The bus waits on her, because the driver is _awesome_ , and she boards quickly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Quentin!”

Quentin, the gruff but kind driver that she’s sort of befriended the last couple weeks, gives her a sour look. “Yeah, yeah. Pay and sit down, sweetheart.” The endearment should grate on her nerves, but for some reason, she just _likes_ Quentin. And she thinks he likes her. Under his irascible exterior, Felicity is _pretty sure_ he’s kind of a marshmallow.

Felicity juggles the pastry, her phone, and her coffee so she can dig out her SCTA card, then swipes it. She stays just behind Quentin, holding on to the rail for balance as he pulls the bus away from the curb. “How’s it going today?” she asks.

She may kind of hate the way her commute stretches to nearly an hour when she doesn’t have her Mini, but she really does like Quentin. He tries to project this hardboiled exterior, but she’s seen the way he helps old Mrs. Ferdinand on and off the bus, and she’s definitely noticed that he’s extra protective of the kids who ride the bus to school. “Same old same old,” he answers. with a quick, lopsided grin “Would you sit down? You’re blocking the mirrors.”

Felicity grins and glances above the large windshield at the long, horizontal mirror meant to give drivers an unimpeded view of their passengers. She notices what looks like a small camera in the corner above the door and frowns. That’s new. Or at least she hadn’t noticed it before. “When did you get security cameras?” she wonders.

“We don’t have--” Quentin stops and shakes his head in exasperation. “Are you gonna sit, or do I need to pull this bus over?”

Felicity laughs outright. “Yes, _dad_ , I’ll sit.” Still smiling, she carefully makes her way back two rows to an empty seat beside woman about her age with a _really_ unfortunate reddish dye job. Felicity offers a quick smile as she settles in, then pulls her tablet out of her bag.

Okay, the _reading_ time that commuting by bus and subway affords her is another plus. So it’s that and the new favorite coffee spot, but the rest of it kind of sucks.

She’s almost lost herself in the novel she’d started two days earlier when a news alert pops up in the taskbar. She’d created her own news-scraping program, building her own secure and very specific RSS feed. Normally, she gets little blurbs about advances in security architecture -- she’s been heading up a security overhaul at work . Sometimes, there are little pings when yet another company has to publicly confirm a security breach. Those stories keep her up at night.

And, yes, okay, there are _occasionally_ alerts about her TV shows. Just -- from time to time.

Today, though -- Felicity’s attention catches on the word “explosion.” She sits up a little straighter and taps the alert. It’s only a banner headline so far -- explosion on a bus just outside the Glades not less than ten minutes ago. There’s no official comment or confirmation, but the subhead says eyewitness accounts suggest a bomb.

Felicity stares at the words, dumbfounded. A bomb on a bus?

Like, a _bus_ bus? Like _this_ bus? Felicity looks up, glancing around at her fellow passengers as a shiver of unease runs through her. Should she tell someone? Like maybe Quentin? Shouldn’t he get a warning from dispatch about this kind of thing? Or is that more for pilots of commercial airliners? Because in a post-9/11 society, disseminating information about possible attacks could help save lives.

And -- okay, she’s spiraling a little, her breathing speeding up as she feels her pulse pounding.

She doesn’t need to tell Quentin. She’s almost sure of that. Though it occurs to her that she hasn’t really heard the normal radio chatter this morning -- scratchy voices crackling on and on about routes and bus numbers and traffic patterns. She leans forward a little in her seat, but still hears none of the usual back and forth.

That’s troubling.

Unless she’s just kind of panicking. Which she should stop doing immediately. She’s on a bus in Starling City, and probably there’s a totally unrelated bus that got into an accident, and the engine was hit just right and -- you know, _after_ everyone was safely evacuated -- maybe there was a small explosion.

In an effort to convince herself, Felicity nods. Because she’s a believer in Occam’s Razor, and the press blowing something out of proportion should _always_ be the choice when the other possibility is terrorist attack.

She switches back to the Kindle app and stares blankly down at the screen. The words blur and fade into the background.

Because no matter what she tries to tell herself, she’s almost _sure_ someone blew up a bus in Starling City.

& & &

Oliver yanks the unicorn-sticker-covered handset off of its cradle and presses the cool plastic to his ear. “Who’s this?”

“I’m calling to report a bomb,” says a low voice with a hint of an accent. British? Australian? Oliver can’t quite tell. “I’m looking to speak to a cop. I’m sure there’s one or two crawling around.”

The guy sounds confrontational. Resentful. Every instinct is telling Oliver this guy is involved somehow. Plus there’s no way a passerby who saw the bus explode would just happen to know the number for a nearby payphone. “Traditionally these kinds of calls are directed to 911, not random payphones,” Oliver shoots back, turning to scan his surroundings in a slow 360. He feels exposed, suddenly, like he can feel this creep’s eyes on his back. “And we’re already aware of the explosion.”

Every person he can see has his or her attention fixed on the burning bus. Some are clutching at each other with that grasping need for human connection in an inhuman situation. Some have their hands pressed to their foreheads or their temples in disbelief. Some are gesturing and chattering to each other.

None of them are paying a bit of attention to Oliver, standing on the corner and talking on a payphone like it’s 1987 or something.

“ _We_?” the voice repeats, sounding... amused? Oliver fumbles with his cellphone, muttering a curse under his breath. Because he knows -- _knows_ \-- this is the bomber calling to gloat. And Oliver also knows he’s the exact _wrong_ person for talking to potential pyrotechnic psychos. The man on the phone adds, “So you’re an officer yourself.”

Oliver considers lying, but he’s pretty sure those training sessions about talking people down emphasized honesty. He wishes he’d paid more attention, but usually Tommy’s around to handle that side of things. Tommy’s always been good with words; Oliver, not so much. “Yeah,” he answers belatedly. He opens the camera app on his phone, flips it to video mode, and hits record. He brings it up beside the handset, and it’s really awkward trying to make sure both he and the recording program will catch whatever this psycho says in response. But he’s doing the best he can. “So let me take your report. Name and address, please?”

The man has the gall to laugh. “Nice try, kid,” he says, and Oliver glances around, still half-convinced the bomber is somewhere close by watching him. “Consider this an anonymous tip. There’s a bomb on a bus.”

Oliver grits his teeth, glancing back at the flames still raging around the twisted metal skeleton of the bus half a block away. The fire department has arrived and firefighters are directing high-powered streams of water onto the conflagration, producing heavy, dark smoke that mars the bright blue sky.

“Listen up, kid,” this asshole continues, “and you just might learn a thing or two.” Oliver wants badly to hit something. Really fucking hard. But he makes himself stay silent as the guy keeps talking, because people often say more than they mean to, especially when they’re worked up on adrenaline or psychosis or whatever. The bomber is half-yelling at this point. “When someone calls to report a bomb, you show them some goddamn respect. You understand?”

Oliver stills, bristling against the fucking _nerve_ of this asshole. Oliver’s the _wrong_ fucking person to be handling this. Why couldn’t this prick have just called 911?

Trying to calm himself, he blows out an unsteady breath before he lets himself answer. “What are you calling to report?” He makes a face, then adds, “Sir,” through a clenched jaw.

The prick sounds amused when he replies, “There’s a bomb on a bus. _Another_ bus.”

Oliver’s gut clenches. Of course. This asshole isn’t just calling to brag -- he wants something. Almost certainly, he wants money. This is the exact kind of situation Oliver’s trained for, and maybe he couldn’t save the people on the bus still burning behind him, but he will goddamn save the people on whatever _other_ bus out there has C4 strapped to it.

“Which bus?” he demands, trying like hell to keep his voice flat and calm. He has no fucking patience for beating around the bush -- he’s wired to fix problems, not tease information out of megalomaniacal assholes.

“You need to listen very carefully,” the prick says, his tone chock full of condescension. “Can you do that?”

Fuck this guy and his belittling _bullshit_. Oliver keeps himself calm by imagining what he’s going to do to this asshole when they find him. “I’m listening.”

“I want $3.7 million by 10:30, or I’ll blow up the bus.”

Oliver has a bunch of ideas on how to solve this problem -- dozens of ways to find the bus, evacuate it, and get it to a safe location. Then it won’t matter if this arrogant prick presses his little red button. He just needs a little more information. “I’ll pass that up the chain of command,” Oliver says, and he _does_ realize that his tone is probably a little too cavalier, but not quite in time to correct it. “Why don’t you give me your location so I can swing by and drop it off?”

There’s no trace of amusement in the prick’s voice when he practically shouts, “You need to take me seriously.”

Goddamnit, Oliver really wishes Tommy were the one on the phone with the sociopath. He leans his forehead against the payphone’s little privacy screen and closes his eyes. “You’ve killed people already today,” Oliver retorts. “If you think I’m not taking this seriously, you’re not paying attention.”

“I have the detonator. If I so much as see a hint of you anywhere near me, I will blow it up.”

“I understand.” These warnings are the bare minimum Oliver would expect from a competent bomber.

“Oh, and kid?” he adds, sounding calmer again. “The bomb is tied in to the speedometer.”

Oliver stiffens and turns, scanning his surroundings again, desperate to see another bus, _the_ other bus, so he can put a _stop_ to this. Because this speedometer thing is what’s going to make all of his plans impossible, and he already knows it. Shit. “Tied in how?” he asks anyway.

“Once the bus reaches 50 miles an hour, the bomb is armed.” He pauses, but Oliver stays silent, because this is a performance, or at least a gloating session. The bomber is proud of himself. He wants to dazzle Oliver and the rest of the SWAT team with his brilliance. “If the bus drops below 50, the bomb goes off.”

At that, Oliver slams the side of his fist against the payphone. The pain channels some of his fury and leaves him at least able to talk. “It’s _rush hour_ ,” he grits out, “there’s no way traffic will move consistently enough for--”

“That’s not my problem, kid,” he interrupts. “Now why don’t you give me your phone number so we can keep in touch.” Oliver rattles off his number, and the preening asshole says, “Thanks, kid. Don’t call me -- I’ll call you,” and hangs up.

“FUCK!” Oliver shouts, slamming the payphone handset back into the cradle. He stops the recording on his phone and texts the file to Diggle with a quick, urgent message. He’s about to call Tommy when he receives a text from a blocked number. It’s four digits, and Oliver has no fucking idea what it is, only that it’s important.

He takes off for his bike at a dead run, dialing Tommy, who answers quickly. “Tommy, I just talked to the bomber and I need your help. Are you there?”

“Just got in,” Tommy affirms. “How did you--?”

“Later,” Oliver interrupts. “There’s another bus with a bomb on it. He texted me four digits -- maybe a route number, or -- are the buses themselves numbered?”

“I don't know,” Tommy answers, and Oliver can tell from his tone of voice that he’s intensely focused on this problem. “But I’ll sure as hell find out.”

“Tommy, this guy...” Oliver shakes his head. “He’s ruthless. You need to help me find this bus.”

& & &

Felicity has given up on her just-peacefully-reading-and-totally-not-thinking-about-bombs pretense, and is trying to find reliable information via social media. It’s irrational, for sure, but she’s on a bus, too, and she’s never seriously considered being afraid of getting _blown up_ on a bus before, but… Maybe she was just being too naive?

There are cities -- countries, even -- where day-to-day things like buses _aren’t_ safe. Where things blowing up is the very, _very_ scary way of the world.

So maybe Felicity’s newfound, like, mild terror, is to be expected. Though -- is that a thing or an oxymoron? Because _terror_ doesn’t seem like something you can feel _mildly_ , but it’s like she knows it probably won’t happen, but if it does, it will be _catastrophic_. So it’s hard to get a fix on where the appropriate level of fear should be. But she’s sure scared of the possibility now.

Especially when she starts reading the #StarlingBusExplosion hashtag on Twitter, which includes a couple grainy cellphone pictures of, yup, a bus burning obscenely against the bright blue sky. She sees a short Vine and clicks the link. She regrets it immediately -- it’s only maybe 10 or 15 seconds, but it shows the flame-charred skeletal outline of a bus just like the one she’s on right now, with huge arcing orange flames pouring out of the top. Whoever took the Vine is just saying, “Oh, my God,” over and over again.

And because it’s a Vine, it just keeps looping through. Felicity can’t make herself stop watching, her stomach churning with a little bit of fear for herself, but mostly horror for what happened to the people on that bus.

“Oh, _geez_ ,” says a man’s voice from distressingly close to her ear.

Startled, Felicity turns to find a young, geekily attractive man well within her personal space. He’s sitting behind her, but has leaned forward to place his forearms on the back of her seat so he can stare, wide-eyed, at the phone in her hands.

“That’s awful,” he says, glancing at her before his attention is drawn back to the looped video. “Did something happen in Israel?”

Felicity blinks. “Starling City.”

The expression on his face changes from empathy to shock and fear. “What?”

Felicity’s redheaded seatmate whips her head around, staring wide-eyed at the video, then looking to Felicity for more information.

“Ummm,” Felicity says, belatedly closing out of the Vine.

“Sorry,” the cute guy apologizes, half-sitting back in his own seat. “I didn’t mean to be nosy or anything. I just--” He shakes his head. “Did that really happen here? Because that seems kind of--”

“A bus exploded,” she interrupts, because if there’s one thing she can recognize, it’s an impending ramble. Well, she can recognize it in _others_ , but sadly has yet to get a grip on her own loquacious tendencies. At least not _before_ she’s smack in the middle of a ramble.

Like now for instance. She’s launched into a torturous explanation of the questionable provenance of the Vine she’d been watching and the role of social media in the dissemination of breaking news events. An explosion on a bus, for example.

And -- more passengers than just the redhead and the cute guy are staring at her now. Great. “Um,” she says. “I just--”

“Felicity,” Quentin interrupts, giving her a wry smile in the large mirror over the windshield. “Stop scaring my passengers.”

She holds her tablet up. “But--”

“There’s nothing on the radio,” he interrupts. “Don’t you think they’d tell the other drivers?”

And with that, some of the tension dissipates. Because, sure, Twitter could certainly be wrong. Maybe it didn’t happen here. Or maybe it didn’t happen at all? “Sorry, Quentin,” she apologizes, then gives her fellow commuters a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

“No,” the cute-in-a-geeky-way guy behind her says, “that was really interesting actually.” Off her confused look, he adds, “About the role of traditional media, versus the immediacy of things like Twitter and Instagram.”

Felicity flushes. “Okay.”

He grins at her. “I’m Barry. Barry Allen. Visiting from Central City.”

“Felicity,” she says. “Smoak. Felicity Smoak, that’s me.”

“Nice to meet you, Felicity.”

& & &

Oliver is multitasking.

Or trying to. It’s not going well.

Tommy is on the phone, working to locate the bus with the possible bomb on it, which means a lot of incomprehensible muttering and the occasional question for Oliver. Meanwhile, Oliver is fumbling with his motorcycle helmet, wishing he’d paid attention when his sister explained how to make his phone work with the integrated microphone and speaker in the helmet. Bluetooth something. Coupling, maybe?

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Huh?” Tommy asks, somewhat distractedly.

“Nothing, just I think I have to hang up. Call me with the location.” Oliver hits “END” and scrolls to his sister’s number.

Thea’s probably still asleep, considering it’s not even 8:30 in the morning. She’d arranged her college classes to accommodate late nights out, which bothers Oliver on a number of levels. But once both of their parents were gone, he’d managed to raise Thea from an angry, heartbroken, headstrong fourteen-year-old into the still pretty angry, stubborn, and occasionally irresponsible nineteen-year-old she is today. Shepherding her into at least technical adulthood without her spiraling wildly out of control the way he had -- he’s going to call it a win.

At least she’s _going_ to college. He’d failed out of two different colleges, a fact she never lets him forget. He’s come to accept her mostly good-natured mocking, even if he still misses the times she used to run after him and hang on his every word. These days, she doesn’t even always take his calls.

Like now. He curses when he hears her voicemail kick in, then immediately redials.

“Ollie, what the _hell_?” she answers groggily.

He winces at the old nickname, and deploys hers in retaliation. “Speedy, this is an emergency. How do I take phone calls through the motorcycle helmet you got me?”

There’s a moment of silence, then an incredibly sarcastic, “Really? A _bluetooth_ emergency? I’m hanging up.”

“Thea!” he snaps, and she knows him well enough to know he’s deadly serious. Even if he won’t share details. “There’s a situation and I need to be mobile. Right now. There’s no time to get to the precinct, so I need you to help me.”

“Oh.” Thea sounds much less hostile. Or maybe just hostile for a different reason -- her assumption that he’s about to run headlong into danger. She told him once that she was proud of him, but she also hates that his job is dangerous. Oliver knows Thea has abandonment issues, but her reluctant support of his assignment to the SWAT team has always felt like disappointment. And since Thea is the best one of all the Queens, she’s the one person he’s never wanted to let down.

“Speedy,” he softens his tone, “can you please help me out?”

Her stubbornness crumbles immediately, and she explains the fairly simple process to him.

“Thanks.” It’s heartfelt. She’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but he adores his sister. He became a cop to help keep the world safe for people like Thea.

“No problem, Ollie,” Thea answers breezily. She may be quick to anger, but she’s even quicker to forgive him. “Feel free to reciprocate the favor by putting in a good word with Officer Harper.”

Oliver snorts, not even dignifying that with a response. No way in hell does he want his sister dating the taciturn rookie with the massive chip on his shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Speedy.”

Pairing his helmet and his phone goes much more quickly now that he knows what the fuck he’s doing. He yanks the helmet on, tucks his phone into his pocket, and throws a leg over his motorcycle. Tommy calls him back just as the engine roars to life, and Oliver presses the button along the edge of the helmet to answer. He’s irrationally proud of himself when the bluetooth actually works.

Tommy’s voice echoes over the sound of the bike. “I think we got it, Oliver,” Tommy says. “Other side of the Glades, on 18th, heading for State Street.”

“I’m on my way. Send the black-and-whites, too.”

“Will do,” Tommy confirms. “But Oliver -- dispatch can’t raise the bus. Their radio’s out.”

Oliver considers that for a moment. “If anything, that makes me more sure that you found the right bus,” he concludes grimly, “ _and_ that this isn’t a bluff.”

& & &

Despite her remaining unease with the bombed-out-bus thing, Felicity is trying to keep up her end of the conversation with Barry. Because he’s nice enough, and the bus is crawling down 18th street, which means they’ve got at least another twenty minutes before her stop -- _maybe_ fifteen if they can make good time once they hit the highway. And they are -- Felicity cranes her neck, trying to see past her seatmate to get a sense of where they are and, yup -- _nowhere_ near the freeway yet.

Stupid traffic.

She’s in the middle of listing Starling City’s best not-super-tourist-y places for Barry to check out when the roar of a motorcycle engine catches her attention. She wouldn’t pay it any mind, except that it sounds _really_ close.

She stops talking mid-sentence and turns to look out the window.

There is, in fact, a motorcycle riding like _irresponsibly_ close to the bus. She wrinkles her nose, because she has no desire to see a cyclist pancake, and this moron seems determined to drive as crazily as possible. She’s pretty sure it’s a guy, considering the broadness of the shoulders in that brown leather jacket, but she doesn’t want to offend or misgender anyone, so she’ll just think of him -- damnit, she’ll think of the _rider_ \-- as _the rider_.

And… great, now she’s going to be singing _Cool Rider_ all day. Felicity sighs. How does she even know all the words to _Cool Rider_? She hasn’t seen _Grease 2_ in years and years, but _I’ll be your girl for all seasons, all the year through--_

Felicity shakes her head, as if she can jar her brain into a different train of thought with the motion.

It almost never works.

Anyway, the rider is on one of those speedy, shiny bikes that make the rider (the cool rider? Ugh!) lean way far forward and generally just look absolutely ridiculous. Not that Felicity knows much about motorcycles. Any knowledge she has is from watching _Sons of Anarchy_ , and she was _much_ more interested in Jax Teller than in the make and model of their Harleys. Though, uh, she supposes that _Harley_ is the make. So she doesn’t know much about _other_ makes, or _any_ models.

The rider zooms alongside the bus on the left, Felicity’s side, and slows to pace them, waving an arm to catch Quentin’s attention.

“Uh,” Felicity says, glancing at the redhead beside her, “that biker seems kind of crazy.”

Her seatmate is apparently transfixed by the man on the motorcycle, though, and merely hums in response. She’s leaning her forehead against the not-terribly-clean bus window, her fingertips drawing little -- hearts? _seriously_? -- on the glass beside her face.

Ooookay, Felicity thinks. She considers moving to sit with Barry, but then the motorcycle roars ahead and swoops in front of the bus. Felicity braces herself when Quentin hits the brakes.

“Quentin, what’s with the guy on the motorcycle?” she asks.

But Quentin is muttering something to himself, and just waves a dismissive hand instead of answering. He seems more concerned with not running over the crazy biker than answering her questions.

Which is entirely fair.

Felicity can’t see the motorcycle from her seat anymore, but she can hear the engine sound changing, and then Quentin is shooting incredulous looks toward the door. Leaning forward, Felicity spots the biker riding _really close_ to the door, and then he’s _banging on the glass_.

“Speed up!” Felicity yelps, starting to panic a little. Because why is this psycho harassing their bus? “Don’t let that crazy guy on the bus.”

The banging gets more insistent, and the glass spiderwebs.

Felicity can feel the beginnings of panic careening among the passengers. Because they all know a bus blew up, and now some crazy guy is attacking their bus?

She’s never been happier to see a sign for the freeway in her life.

Quentin brings the bus onto the highway onramp a little faster than he probably would have _without_ a lunatic on a bike trying to force his way on board. Felicity tilts into the aisle as the bus arcs along the curve, then straightens. She heaves a sigh of relief when the roar of that motorcycle engine recedes into the distance.

“What a freak,” she says. Then she settles back into her seat. Because now it’s just fifteen steady, stop-free minutes on the freeway, and then she can switch to the subway and forget all about bombs and crazy bikers.

& & &

Oliver curses creatively and loudly as the bus accelerates onto the freeway.

He’s not really shocked that the driver ignored some helmeted guy on a motorcycle -- he should probably actually be glad the guy didn’t just pull over, considering he had no way to know that Oliver is a cop. Sure, he’d tried to flash his badge, but he can only steer the bike one-handed for so long, particularly when he’s riding less than a foot away from a fifteen-ton bus.

Regardless, he needs a new plan. Really fucking fast. Especially now that the bus is on the highway -- he knows that all SCTA vehicles have speed governors, which keep them from exceeding sixty miles an hour, but there’s no way a bus driver will just randomly stay below fifty on the damn freeway.

“Fuck,” he mutters, roaring over to the shoulder and abandoning his beloved Ducati. He tucks the keys into the pocket of his cargo pants, unzips his leather jacket, and yanks his badge free. It won’t help bolster his credibility that he’s wearing tan cargo pants and a plain white t-shirt under his leather jacket, but he darts out into traffic to commandeer a car anyway.

“SCPD! I’m a cop!” he’s yelling, holding the badge up in front of him. People are studiously driving around him and speeding away. Which, again, in any other circumstance, he’d be applauding their decision to avoid the possibly nutso screaming guy in the middle of the road.

But he’s perfectly fucking sane, and he does _not_ have time for this. “Hey!’ he shouts, moving aggressively in front of a slightly rundown convertible. “I’m a cop!”

The dark green convertible screeches to a stop, and the blonde driver gives him a crooked smile. “Are cops allowed to carjack people?”

Oliver is already moving, leaping easily into the passenger seat. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Oliver Queen with the 15th precinct. You can call my badge number in for confirmation, but we need to _go_.” He can’t see the damn bus anymore, but he hasn’t heard an explosion yet, so there must still be time to save everyone. He glances over to find the woman still watching him with an amused look. And not driving. “Go, go, _go_ ,” he commands, “Or let me drive. I’m commandeering your car for police business.”

She holds a hand up between them and shakes her head. “No, no -- I’ll drive.” She hits the gas. “Where to?”

Oliver waves her towards the freeway on-ramp. “We need to catch up to a bus. _Before_ it hits fifty,” he adds grimly.

She accelerates quickly, a confident, capable driver, to Oliver’s relief. Even when she starts weaving around the slower cars once they merge onto the highway. “So,” she says, sounding remarkably calm considering she’s blowing past a tractor-trailer, “I assume you won’t ticket me for speeding.”

“Ma’am, I--”

“Sara,” she interrupts. “Please don’t call me ma’am.”

Oliver spares her a quick smile. “Sara, then. Thanks. And I promise -- no speeding tickets.” He spots the bus up ahead and leans forward in his seat, willing them to go faster. “There! Can you--”

“On it,” Sara answers, swerving out onto the left shoulder and sending little rocks and debris flying behind them, all to get past a sedan in the fast lane. Oliver grips the dashboard tightly and gives a passing thought to putting on a seatbelt.

Then they’re closing in on the bus and he has more important things to worry about. “Get right up alongside, Sara,” he orders. “Pace the bus for a few seconds. I need to know how fast it’s going.”

Sara spares him a puzzled look, but complies.

Muscles coiled with the need to _do_ something, Oliver stares at her speedometer as their speed decreases to match the bus.

“Fifty-four,” Sara says.

“Fuck!” Oliver shouts. He missed his goddamn chance to stop this before it really got started. “Get me close to the driver’s window. And honk.”

Sara edges the car forward and lays on the horn. Some corner of his brain is impressed with how well she’s handling a very strange situation, but he’s too focused on getting the driver’s attention to spend any more time on that.

The driver gives Oliver an unimpressed look when he finally glances over, but Oliver waves his badge and shouts, “Open your window!” He shifts up onto his knee, leaning his hips against the door to help brace against the wind now that his head and shoulders are above the windshield.

It takes a few tries before the driver obeys. And he looks pretty pissed about it. “What?”

The wind makes it nearly impossible for them to hear each other, but Oliver tries anyway. “There’s a bomb on the bus.”

He hears Sara’s surprised yelp behind him, but she holds the car mostly steady. He makes a mental note to thank her later.

“What?” the driver asks, frowning.

“There’s a _bomb_ on the bus.”

Oliver knows the second the driver understands -- his mouth goes slack, eyes wide, and he just turns to stare blankly out the windshield.

It hits Oliver then that this is going to go _very fucking badly_ if he can’t get this guy to snap out of it. One hand on the corner of the windshield, he half-turns and yells to Sara, “Are we slowing down?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, and she does actually sound a little rattled now.

“Horn,” Oliver snaps, and she honks again, loud and long. Oliver turns back to the bus, yelling and waving his arms around until the driver looks over. “Stay above _fifty_. Fifty.” He lifts both hands, one with fingers spread, the other in a fist to demonstrate, swaying a little with the motion of the car. “Got it?”

The driver nods again, a little less dully.

Oliver lets himself slump for a brief moment, relieved. He drops back into the passenger seat and shoots Sara a quick thanks, then he calls Tommy. “I found the bus.”

“Did you make contact with the driver?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah, he’s aware,” Oliver confirms “But the bus is already going fifty -- the bomb’s set to detonate. Tommy, we need a goddamn escort.”

“We’re on it,” Tommy confirms. “Sit tight.”

“Yeah,” Oliver answers, distracted. But sitting idly by isn’t really in his repertoire.

So he looks over at Sara. “I need to get on that bus.”

And maybe she’s not quite as cool and collected about this whole thing, because her eyebrows arch upwards and she shakes her head. “You’re deeply nuts.”

& & &

It has not escaped Felicity’s notice that the convertible pacing them is carrying a broad-shouldered man in a -- _really_ nice -- brown leather jacket that looks suspiciously like what that crazy guy on the motorcycle was wearing.

Huh.

She also notices that he’s waving what appears to be a police badge while yelling something to Quentin. But the open window beside Quentin means all Felicity can hear is the sound of air rushing past. So she keeps her gaze fixed on Quentin in the big driver’s mirror over the windshield, and as it turns out, she doesn’t need to hear what the crazy cop is yelling, because Quentin turns white as a ghost and stares kind of vacantly ahead for a moment.

Shit.

Felicity hates how logical her mind is sometimes. Because she’d really rather _not_ know that there’s a bomb on her bus. A _bomb_.

“Frack,” she says, ignoring both the strange look from the redhead beside her and the cheerful, “Oh, you’re a BSG fan?” from Barry. Because, yeah, _bomb_.

Felicity stands on weirdly shaky legs, takes two careful steps up the aisle, and grabs the vertical pole just behind Quentin. She leans close, her voice low, and asks, “Is there a bomb?”

Her gaze shifts to the crazy cop in the convertible, who’s sitting back down now, a cellphone pressed to his ear. But his attention is focused on the bus. Their gazes lock briefly, and Felicity would probably have kept staring at him like a lunatic if Quentin hadn’t straightened his shoulders and snapped, “Get behind the yellow line.”

“Quentin--”

“Felicity,” he interrupts, still gruff, but she can hear the concern in his voice, “sit down.” He lifts one hand off the steering wheel and presses it against his chest for a moment, inhaling one long, slow breath.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her focus more on him than potentially explosive death. He looks kind of pale, maybe a little sweaty, but that’s about how she feels now that she knows about the bomb, so...?

“I’m fine,” he answers, bringing his hand back to the steering wheel and glancing up at her with what he must think is a reassuring smile. It’s really not. In fact, it more closely resembles a grimace. “Would you please sit down?”

“I can help,” she offers, and wait, what is she even saying? She doesn’t really want to help with anything involving a _bomb_. So instead-- “Just pull over and get everyone off--”

A blaring horn distracts her, and she looks to the right. There, through the cracked glass of the door, she sees the same green convertible carrying the same brown-leather-jacket-wearing, possibly crazy cop. He’s gesturing wildly, and she’s pretty sure he’s yelling. Do cops have psych screenings, she wonders. They must, right?

Quentin overrides the safety constraints and opens the door. The resulting rush of air makes the skirt of Felicity’s dress flutter wildly. She yelps and grabs the fabric in one hand, trying to avoid giving her fellow passengers a peep show.

When she looks up again, she’s shocked to see the blonde driving the convertible edging closer and closer and-- Holy shit.

The crazy cop -- who, incidentally, is _really_ cementing that nickname -- has moved to the backseat of the car. He’s crouching on the seat behind the driver, eyeing the distance between the car and the bus, clearly about to-- “Is he going to _jump_?” Felicity yelps.

There’s a lot of rustling and exhortations of disbelief behind her, as the passengers flood to the right side of the bus to gawk.

“No!” Felicity shouts. She moves to the top of the stairs, flinging both hands up in front of her, as if she can ward him off. “Are you crazy?” Quentin’s holding the bus pretty steady, but a bump is enough to nearly topple her over, and Felicity grabs the handrail to steady herself.

The cop -- who, and this is so not the time, but goddamn, he is attractive -- glares at her, lifting the hand he’s using to balance himself while he _half-stands in the back of a car on the freaking freeway_ to wave her back. And she could _swear_ he’s yelling at her to be careful, not to get the hell out of his way.

She decides to do both, moving back behind the yellow line, one hand wrapped firmly around the vertical pole behind Quentin. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, _God_ ,” Felicity mutters. She doesn’t want to watch this man die, however insane he may be. But she can’t make herself look away. Because normal people do not hurl themselves from one speeding vehicle to another. It’s insane.

But he’s totally going to try.

He brings one foot up to the top of the driver’s side door, just behind the blonde driver’s head. He’s got his right hand on her headrest, and his left reaching toward the bus. And then he’s moving, half-jumping, half-diving onto the stairs. His left hand catches the rail and clamps down, and he gets both feet onto the bottom stair.

It’s _really_ impressive. And also insane.

Felicity is reaching for him before she realizes what she’s doing. She wraps a hand around his bicep to help, and, good Lord, _really_? His arms are huge and ridiculously hard beneath the soft leather of his jacket.

He pauses and looks up at her, and wow, his eyes are stupidly, unfairly blue. She gives a completely ineffectual tug to his arm, and the edge of his mouth quirks. “Thanks.”

“Are you crazy?” she says, probably in a louder and more accusatory tone than is really warranted in the situation. “That,” she continues, gesturing vaguely at the open door he’s just jumped through, “is really not something people do. At least not normal people. Not that you’re abnormal in a _bad_ way. I just mean it’s a pretty stupid risk to take unless you’re, like, a superhero with invulnerability or an adamantium skeleton or,” she shrugs helplessly, “the ability to fly.”

He slowly pulls himself to his feet. “A stupid risk,” he repeats, sounding amused.

Felicity can feel herself flushing. Because _why_ is she yelling at a perfect stranger who is almost certainly a cop? “I’m not saying _you’re_ stupid. Or a superhero. Obviously.”

He’s grinning at her now, and his smile is just downright unfair. When he rests one hand briefly on her shoulder, she swears her skin actually tingles at the touch, even through her cardigan. “Definitely not a superhero,” he says, “Just a cop.” He holds her gaze for an extra beat, then turns to address the passengers. “My name is Oliver Queen, and I’m with the SCPD. Sorry for the excitement, but there’s a bit of a situation on the bus, but if we all just stay calm--”

And then chaos breaks out. Because of course it does.

END CHAPTER


	2. Chapter 2

The last thing Oliver expects when he launches himself onto the bus is armed resistance.

Well, maybe the _last_ thing he expects is a hot blonde to help him to his feet while rambling about how he’s a superhero. (Or is not a superhero? it was adorably addled.) In fact, he’s still weirdly focused on her, drinking in her jaunty ponytail, the distinctive glasses framing intelligent blue eyes, and the memorably bright and _distractingly_ short red dress. He’s a little sidetracked wondering what the top of the dress looks like under that grey cardigan when he catches the rush of movement in his peripheral vision. When he turns, there’s a guy -- white, he catalogues automatically; wiry build, less than six feet tall, dark hair -- charging up the aisle, coming at him with a knife.

Instincts kick in and Oliver reads the panic and reluctance in his adversary’s body language. “Don’t,” Oliver warns, quickly pushing the helpful blonde behind him and stepping forward to make sure she’s out of harm’s way. 

His opponent is inexperienced and clearly scared, because he’s jabbing and slashing way before he’s within striking range. It’s all panic, no technique, and Oliver lets his hand-to-hand training take over. He evades the blade easily, grabbing the guy’s wrist and twisting until the knife clatters to the floor. He kicks it away, then brings the attacker into his body, turning and forcing the man down onto his knees. “Are we done?” he asks, not even breathing hard. He’s got the man’s wrist torqued enough to hurt, but not to damage -- so long as he doesn’t try to get away.

The man remains motionless for a moment, then nods slowly. He doesn’t seem resentful or angry, more resigned to his fate. Oliver isn’t quite ready to believe this is over, but he doesn’t have his handcuffs or any zip ties on him, so he’s a little low on options at the moment. Oliver holds him in place with a heavy hand on the shoulder and says, “I’m not here for you.” 

And he supposes it’s only fair to tell them all the truth. They’ve achieved an unstable sort of equilibrium for the moment, but he’s gonna need to start looking for the bomb. The passengers would notice that, even if he _hadn’t_ jumped onto the bus on the highway.

Despite Oliver’s firm belief in the concept of need to know -- and typically civilians have _no_ need to know about bomb threats unless it’s necessary to evacuate them -- this situation is a little out of the ordinary. Protocol is to clear the area around the bomb, evaluate the threat, and either disarm or go for a controlled explosion. But he’s stuck on step one -- he _can’t_ evacuate people at 55 miles per hour. So if he’s going to evaluate the threat with a bunch of civilians at risk, he needs everyone calm and on the same page.

Panic is natural, but the last thing Oliver needs.

With a sigh, he steps back. “There’s a bomb on the bus,” he announces, because it’s not like there’s a great way to explain the situation. He pauses for the first wave of reactions to settle. “I’m a member of the bomb squad, and--” A siren chirps beside them, and Oliver glances over to see the timely arrival of a squad car, lights flashing as it pulls up along the bus’s right side. He grins, “And the cavalry is coming. So if we all just--”

The bus veers to the right suddenly, and Oliver nearly topples into the lap of a redheaded passenger who has been watching him with a little more interest than he thinks is necessary. His hip collides with the hard plastic seat frame, and he just manages to steady himself with a firm grip on the handrail when there’s a jarring crunch that sends him the opposite way. 

Shit. He knows before he can confirm it that they’ve collided with the squad car that was pacing them to the right. 

Horns blare around them, as the bus continues to drift toward the slow lane. Before Oliver can make it to the front, the hot blonde woman is beside the driver, who’s slumped over the steering wheel.

“Quentin! Quentin, what’s wrong?” she’s asking, even as she grabs the wheel to correct before they run out of lanes and drift into the sidewall. “Oh, shit, oh, shit,” she’s chanting, and Oliver has no idea how she’s staying upright in her black and silver heels.

Then he’s back in crisis mode, easing Quentin out of the driver’s seat and moving him to an empty seat with the help of a couple passengers. “Any doctors or nurses on the bus?” Oliver asks, with no response.

The blonde has slipped into the driver’s seat, and he’s momentarily distracted by how tiny she looks behind the large steering wheel. Her eyes are wide and she’s muttering something about getting to a hospital. 

“No!” Oliver yells, taking two quick steps to her side. “Keep us above fifty.”

She turns those blue eyes up to him, and sunlight glints off of her glasses. “Fifty miles per hour? Why? Quentin needs--”

When she stops abruptly and jerks her attention back to the road, Oliver knows she’s figured it out. He touches her shoulder again, waiting for her to glance up at him. He nods slowly. “We need to stay above fifty, miss.” 

Their gazes lock and he feels an inexplicable pull between them and finds himself strangely tongue-tied. Before he can come up with anything to say to her, one of the passengers says, “Detective?”

Oliver turns. “Yeah?”

A tall man with short cropped dark hair and serious brown eyes is standing in the aisle beside Quentin, looking a little nervously at the ailing man. “I had some combat medic training. It’s not much, but I--”

“Great,” Oliver interrupts. “Thanks, Mr...?”

“Ted’s fine.”

“Thanks, Ted.” Oliver gives him an encouraging nod. “Let me know how he’s doing,” he orders, then turns back to the woman driving the bus. “Miss, are you sure--”

“Felicity,” she interrupts, then hooks a thumb up and points it toward herself. “That’s me.”

Oliver nods and tries out the sound of her name on his tongue. “Felicity.” He should really let her be. He needs to start searching for the bomb to see if he can disable it with Tommy’s help. Still, he lingers beside her, telling himself he just needs to make sure she’s okay. Driving the bus -- that she’s okay driving. He clears his throat. “Can you handle this bus?”

“Sure,” she answers, her tone somewhere between amused and terrified. “Handles just like my Mini Cooper.” 

Oliver grins at her and digs his phone out of his pocket. The screen is cracked, because he’d sort of landed on it when he leaped onto the bus. It’s still usable, though, and the first thing he sees is a text message from a blocked number.

It says, _Didn’t think you had it in you, kid. New rule: no one gets off the bus._

“Asshole,” Oliver mutters.

Felicity glances up at him. “Huh?”

He forces a smile. ”Nothing to worry about.”

The bemused look she shoots his way is quite something, like she can see right through him and is delighted he bothered with his fake smile. Then she sarcastically mouths, “Okay,” and turns back to the road.

Oliver wants to follow up on that, but he calls his sergeant instead. Diggle doesn’t bother with hello, just skipping straight to: “Everything okay on the bus?” 

Puzzled, Oliver frowns. “How did you know I was--?”

“Twitter,” Diggle interrupts, and it’s clear he’s done with that subject. “What do we have?”

“Well, a bit of a situation, actually,” Oliver says, glancing back at the driver, who’s half-lying across two seats with Ted still working over him. “The driver’s having chest pains and we need to get him some help.”

“Okay, we’ll see what we can do. Now please tell me you’re not driving,” Diggle demands. “You’re a terrible driver.”

Oliver grins as he glances at Felicity. “No, a passenger’s driving for now, but that’s not sustainable.”

“Hey,” Felicity protests, reaching out to poke him just above the elbow. “I have a _name_. Also, I am an excellent driver.”

He doesn’t have time to be charmed by her, but he is anyway. He makes himself turn sideways, keeping the passengers in view. “Dig, the guy is texting me. We need to keep my phone clear.”

Suddenly, Felicity is twisting in her seat, looking back and waving. Oliver is on instant alert, scanning for anything that would explain her suddenly frantic behavior. There are no traffic issues up ahead, and the passengers all seem calm enough, all things considered. “Felicity, what--?”

“Barry,” she chirps. “Hey, Barry -- Detective Queen needs to use your cellphone.”

He takes note of the thin young man with the skeptical expression who hesitantly pushes to his feet in response to Felicity, but he’s more interested in correcting her. “Oliver,” he says, because he has the strangest need to hear her say his name. He mimics her earlier action and points his thumb at his chest and repeats himself with a small smile when she looks confused, “Oliver.”

“Really?” Diggle barks into his ear. “Do you think this is the best time for--?”

“Dig, we’ve got another phone.” Oliver offers the gawky, uncertain, incredibly young-looking passenger -- _Barry_ , apparently -- his phone and orders, “Tell my sergeant your number.”

Barry swallows hard but accepts the phone. 

And finally, Oliver can turn his attention to what needs to happen next. Because he’s antsy. He needs to find the bomb. He needs to evaluate the risk. And he needs to disarm it.

When Barry hands his phone back, he tells Dig to have Tommy call the other phone and clicks END. He knows Diggle, Snow, and Ramon are heading for the chopper to coordinate from the air. He knows black-and-whites are on the way to escort the bus, and now it’s time for him to get to work.

But first. “Listen up,” he says, speaking loudly and clearly. “We don’t want to give the bad guys any help, right?” He pauses, taking in the moderately terrified looks and the half-hearted nods from the passengers. “Please don’t post updates on Twitter or Instagram or whatever. Okay? I’m gonna look for the bomb, and then we’ll decide how best to defuse it. We don’t need to give anyone any updates on our progress, right?”

There are some murmurs of grudging agreement, which Oliver decides to accept as full agreement. When he turns back to Felicity, she gives him a cheeky smile. “You mean we _shouldn’t_ live-tweet your attempts to disarm a bomb? Spoilsport.”

She’s got dimples when she smiles. He’s not sure why he’s noticing that kind of thing the midst of a crisis, but she’s gorgeous and he can’t help it. He certainly can’t keep himself from smiling back at her.

Oliver shakes himself out of it, placing his cellphone into the cupholder tucked behind the fare collector and wiping his hands on his pants. “Let’s find ourselves a bomb,” he murmurs.

& & &

Felicity has never driven a bus before. 

Like, _obviously_. She’s pretty sure bus drivers get actual bus-driver-class licenses before they’re allowed to handle giant pieces of machinery. But Oliver doesn’t seem that concerned with her abilities (or possible lack thereof), so she’s just going to stay focused and keep them comfortably above fifty until Oliver shares whatever plan the cops are working on.

She studiously ignores the tiny logical voice in her head suggesting that in no universe would the police actually have a contingency plan for a bomb on a bus set to go off if the speed drops below fifty. 

Whatever.

It’s fine. 

Her attention is split between her efforts to quell any internal panicking and her focus on keeping the bus well over fifty. A phalanx of cop cars joined them a few minutes ago, zooming ahead to clear enough road to keep their speed up. It’s a little unnerving, like she’s accidentally driven into a presidential motorcade. Which is why she’s so startled when all of a sudden, Oliver is kneeling beside her studying the square, waist-high column holding the card reader for SCTA farecards. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, leaning very close to her thigh as he examines the column more closely. 

“Uh,” she says, lifting one hand from the wheel for a moment to tap the panel that’s probably only going to be accessible to him if he wedges himself between her seat and the column.

He gives her a quick smile. “Thanks.” He studies the problem for a moment, then leans forward and shimmies out of his leather jacket -- wow, hello, arms. She’d felt his biceps briefly and knew he must have nice arms, but now he’s sitting very close to her in a fitted white t-shirt, and good God.

And -- what is her _problem_?

It would be pretty terrible for her to get distracted by the -- admittedly, like, _ridiculous_ \-- biceps on Oliver and slack on her responsibility to keep the bus from _blowing up_ , so she straightens and makes herself stare at the road. Just the road. Definitely no ogling the hot cop -- the _nice_ cop. Nice. No ogling. Even if he does, in fact, wedge himself against the side of her seat, so close that she can feel the warmth of his back against her thigh.

She really should take her cardigan off. All of this adrenaline is making her feel a little overheated. Totally just the stress. Nothing to do with anything else.

Felicity gets herself back under control as he pries open the access panel and confirms that the bomb isn’t there. Then he scoots away, turns, and now he’s -- she yelps -- he’s slithering between the column and her seat, his head beside her leg, so he can see under the steering wheel.

He freezes, looking up at her. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding, like, entirely too much. “Yup. All good.” Then she glances down at him, and he’s got one eyebrow quirked up, and she can hear herself talking and can’t make herself stop. “Let me just scootch over a bit and you can get between my legs. I mean between my knees. No! Just -- so you can-- To reach the pedals. Because-- Are you? I mean, is that what you’re doing?”

Oliver’s lips are pressed so tightly together that she knows he’s trying to keep himself from laughing. “That’s what I’m doing.”

She very casually smooths her skirt down, making sure she doesn’t accidentally flash him. It’s ridiculous of her to be concerned about what underwear she put on this morning. _Ridiculous_. But she’s still frustrated with herself for not being able to remember.

Not that she could have anticipated that an incredibly attractive man would need to go crawling around at her feet.

And then her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Because he’s shifting around by her legs, his skin brushing against her as he looks for the bomb under the dashboard, and she’s very, very aware of his shoulder against her calf. When he gently touches her ankle with his fingers, urging her to move just a bit, she gets an embarrassing little hitch in her breath. 

_Thank God I shaved._

Felicity mentally face palms, and gives herself a silent lecture on appropriate times and places for getting all awestruck at a hot guy. Because this is _life and death_ and the poor cop is just trying to _not die_ , and she is perving on him like some kind of sex-starved... person. Which, okay, sure, it has been awhile since her last boyfriend, and -- great. Now she’s thoroughly depressed herself at the thought of that uninspired fuck in Ray’s bed with the high-end-yet-strangely-uncomfortable sheets being the last time she’ll ever have sex unless Mr. Hot Cop can figure out how to defuse the bomb.

What a disappointing way to go out. Sexually speaking.

And then Oliver’s moving back, pushing himself into a crouch beside her. “Clean.”

Felicity just looks at him, because -- really? His eyes widen just fractionally, and then he’s standing, suddenly, and is it weird to think of him as graceful?

“Must be under the bus,” Oliver says, and he looks pretty cranky about it.

Quentin says something, then repeats himself, a little louder, “Access panel.”

When Felicity glances back, she sees the rectangular panel in the aisle that she’d somehow never noticed before. It’s in line with the first row of seats, and screwed in place by big, serious-looking bolts. Oliver’s already on his knees, unscrewing the panel with the knife he’d taken from the squirrely guy who’d attacked him earlier. He makes short work of the panel, pulling it up and setting it on the floor beside Barry. 

Barry looks a little nauseated as he stares at the pavement rushing by beneath them. “We’re going really fast,” he mutters.

Oliver gives Barry a look. “Did Tommy call?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Said to call back whenever you need him.”

“We need him.” Oliver glances at Felicity and says, “Just hold steady.” Then he drops to the floor, crouching beside the hole.

“Wait,” Felicity orders, splitting her attention between the road and Oliver. She waves him closer, but he stays still. “Take over.”

Oliver’s eyebrows raise. “What? Why?”

She gives him an exasperated look, then curses and corrects the bus’s course, hurtling past an aging Oldsmobile sputtering along in the slow lane. “Crap! Sorry!” she yells, as if the driver of that car could possibly hear her. She glances at Oliver again. “You drive, I’ll look at the bomb.”

Oliver huffs a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I’m good with computers,” she explains, frowning as the line of cop cars in front of her slows a bit, and her cushion shrinks. She’s a really good driver in her Mini, able to zip and dart among the the other cars and get where she’s going quickly. But this bus is about as far from nimble as possible -- she wonders how it would handle as a sort of battering ram, just plowing through traffic trying to slow them down. It’s not the most elegant solution, but on the other hand, if they end up in bumper to bumper traffic, probably people in the cars around them will also die in the fiery explosion.

Felicity swallows hard.

“Felicity?”

“Huh?” she asks, wide-eyed from her not-at-all-helpful mental wanderings.

“I’m on the _bomb squad_ ,” Oliver retorts, sounding half-bemused, half-insulted. “I’m pretty good with bombs.”

Right. Felicity considers his point. “I should explain that I’m _more_ than good with computers. I’m actually a genius? So if this is built with a complicated program, or circuitry that ties into the speedometer of the bus, I might actually be better equipped to defuse it than you.”

When she glances over at him, Oliver is staring back at her, mouth slightly open. He gives a little shake of his head. “Have you ever defused a bomb?”

“Well, no,” she admits, “but how hard can it be?”

“First of all,” Oliver says, moving to crouch down beside her and lowering his voice, and now _really_ isn’t the time for her to be noticing that he smells nice -- like leather and maybe the faintest hint of pine trees, “the bomb is somewhere under the bus, which means accessing it while we’re moving.”

Felicity jerks her gaze to his. “I thought you were just, you know, _looking_. You’re going to climb under the bus like a...” She shakes her head, flummoxed, “Like a _spider monkey_?”

“Maybe.” He grins. “Still want to try your hand at defusing the bomb?”

She straightens her shoulders, turning her attention back to the road and -- oh, hello, Slowy McSlowerson in the left lane, you just stay right where you are -- keeping them comfortably above 50 miles per hour. “Nope,” she says, “you go on ahead.” Oliver moves to stand up, but Felicity reaches for his arm before she knows what she’s doing. “Or maybe,” she adds, “you shouldn’t either? Because dangling under a bus going fifty--” she glances at the speedometer-- “six miles per hour seems _really_ dangerous.”

Oliver’s smile fades into something that looks a lot like determination. “I need to know everything I can find out about this bomb so I can defuse it. We don’t have a lot of options at the moment.”

The moment is unexpectedly heavy, considering they met less than an hour ago and the circumstances are so bizarre that Felicity could still be convinced that this is some wine-fueled crazy dreamscape. But she’s genuinely worried about him. Her fingers are still on his forearm, and she squeezes gently. “Be careful.”

Oliver doesn’t answer, but he gives her a nod, then pushes to his feet.

& & &

Carefully, carefully, Oliver lies flat on the -- kinda dirty -- floor of the bus and scoots forward until he can look straight down and see pavement flashing by in a greyish blur. Hooking a foot around the pole bolting a seat to the floor, he bends at the waist, one hand braced on the edge of the opening. He’s confident he won’t faceplant on the highway with his legs providing counterbalance, but he _is_ half-dangling beneath a bus hurtling down the highway at 56 miles per hour. 

It’s not the most fun he’s ever had. 

When he feels large palms clamp down on his calves, he flashes an awkward thumbs up and releases the opening, dangling his torso fully. Another, smaller set of hands joins the first, only much higher up on the backs of his thighs. If Oliver could spare the attention, he’d be a little uncomfortable with the gentle squeezes the unknown hands are giving him. But he has work to do. 

It’s like sticking his head into a wind tunnel filled with exhaust fumes. Oliver coughs twice, squinting against the onslaught of rushing air, and then slowly sweeps the underside of the bus. Dirt and dust cover everything in a dull grey blanket, and he doesn’t actually know that much about the workings of a bus (or a car, or, hell, his bike), which means he’s not even sure where a bomber would _put_ a bomb. So he just looks for anything out of the ordinary, anything--

Like that.

Maybe ten feet away from him, a small, clean black rectangle is secured to the underside of the bus with what looks like duct tape. There’s a digital readout showing -- huh -- not time, but what Oliver assumes is the speed of the bus in large red numbers. It’s switching back and forth between 54 and 55 at irregular intervals. 

He tracks the wires as far as he can from his perspective, and starts relaying the information to Tommy via Barry, who’s crouched at the edge of the opening and peering fearfully down as he relays Tommy’s questions back. 

Like, “Is it C4?” (Pretty sure it is, yeah.) 

“Big wand?” (Big _wad_ , yes. More than big enough to get the job done.)

“Is it actually tapped into the speedometer?” (It’s tracking speed, but there’s no way to tell from afar whether it’s passively displaying it, or if there’s a triggering mechanism.) 

“No timing mechanism?” 

That question gives Oliver pause, because normally the digital readout affixed to a bomb is a countdown clock, but not on this bomb. And then Oliver sees a glint of gold and strains just a bit farther, using all his hard-won core strength to tilt his body just a little more for a better vantage point. What the fuck?

Ted -- the owner of the large, respectful pair of hands -- helps Oliver pulls himself back up onto the bus. A redheaded woman with an eager smile is kneeling very close to Oliver, and he assumes that she’s the one who’d been essentially feeling him up. He gives her a quick, “Thanks for the help.” He and Ted replace the access panel before Oliver reaches for the phone in Barry’s hands. “Yeah, Tommy,” he says, trying his best to keep his voice level. “No digital clock I can see, but there’s a watch.”

“Like, a _wrist_ watch?” Tommy asks, sounding about as puzzled as Oliver feels.

Because analog watches are _terrible_ timers. They’re unreliable, imprecise, and many of them require regular winding to keep working. Not that Oliver would ever feel _comfortable_ on a bus wired with explosives, but the fact that the survival of every one of them is reliant on a shitty watch makes him incredibly anxious. “Yeah,” he grits out. “Looks pretty low-end. Gold. Can’t get much of a look at it, given the angles.”

“Shit,” Tommy says. “That’s not great.”

“Oliver?” Felicity says, and he just lifts a hand to ask for a moment, too focused on thinking through the catalogue of bomb cases he’s worked for anything that might help. 

“I’ve never seen a wristwatch in a bomb,” Oliver muses, still crouched in the aisle near the re-secured access panel, one hand on the empty seat beside him for balance. “It’s not even digital, it’s an analog watch.”

“So our bomber’s a Luddite?” Tommy asks.

“Oliver!” Felicity says again, a little louder this time.

He tilts the phone away from his mouth, “One sec.” Then he tells Tommy, “He’s texting me, though. And he’s managed to block the number and caller ID information.” Oliver shrugged. “I can’t get a read on this guy. What does he want? Other than the money, I mean.”

“Well,” Tommy answers slowly, “maybe--”

This time, Felicity shouts his name. _Loudly_. And Oliver jerks to his feet and around, eyes wide. Because, damn, she’s got a set of lungs on her. 

And then he sees what’s got her panicking. 

The black-and-whites that have been escorting them had been traveling in arrow-head formation in front of them, ensuring that other traffic moved to either side to allow the bus through at the necessary speed. But less than a half-mile ahead, cars are no longer moving so much as they're forming a sluggish, impenetrable wall of bumper-to-bumper traffic. 

“Should we get off?” Felicity demands, waving vaguely towards the exit they’re rapidly approaching.

There’s no way the pack of cars crawling along in that snarl will be able to move quickly enough for them to make it through. In front of them, the patrol cars on the right swing into the breakdown lane and maintain their speed. That’s a possibility -- skirting the edges of the traffic jam. But Oliver doesn’t like the idea of getting trapped. What if there’s not enough width for them to make it under an overpass? What if there’s an actual broken down car somewhere up ahead?

“Stay on or get off?” Felicity half-shouts. “Oliver!”

“Get off,” he answers, adding a terse, “Hold on,” over his shoulder for the rest of the passengers. He braces himself between the fare-collection column and the vertical bar just behind Felicity as she wrenches the wheel to the right.

None of their police escort seems to have anticipated their move, because they’re alone again. There’s a line of traffic on the exit ramp but Felicity swerves to the left and keeps the pedal down. There’s just enough pavement for them to squeak past the cars, and her gaze darts back and forth between the road and the speedometer. 

Oliver lets go of the column and reaches for the wheel, holding the horn down as she steers. The width of the ramp shrinks, and they’re clipping cars now, taking sideview mirrors with them, and leaving scratches and dents, but Felicity compensates by pressing the gas harder. The bus is leaning to the left, into the momentum of the turn, and Oliver is more than a little concerned about tipping over.

But then the bus careens out onto Winick Street, a broad three-lanes-each way thoroughfare. There’s traffic, but nothing like the snarled mess on the highway, and Oliver allows himself to exhale. “That was some nice driving.”

“Long story.” Felicity gives him a tight smile. “I worked at the fancy go-kart place in high school, and we used to have full-contact races after we closed for the night. Huh. Guess it wasn’t that long.”

Oliver’s grinning stupidly at her again. Because he hadn’t expected the cute blonde in the heels and the red dress to be quite such a hellion. In the best possible way. 

He shakes himself out of it, turning to the passengers. “Everyone okay?” There’s general nodding and sighs of relief. He moves to the driver’s side. “How are you holding up, sir?”

Quentin is pale and sweaty, and his breathing seems a little labored. He should definitely be in a hospital right now. But he manages a half-smile “Don’t worry about me,” he says, a little unsteadily. “You got enough on your plate.”

Oliver nods, even as he glances to Ted, who gives him a stony look and a shrug. There’s not much they can do for Quentin until they can get him off the bus. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Felicity mutters. 

Oliver turns back, concerned. “What’s wrong?” But he can see for himself -- they’re fast approaching an intersection, and they’ve got a red light. The cross-traffic isn’t heavy, but they’ll absolutely crash if they have to just barrel through. 

Felicity’s leaning on the horn, saying, “please move, please move, _please_ move” under her breath, and then the light changes and they hurtle through, narrowly avoiding someone who’d decided to challenge the yellow light from the side street.

Oliver’s relief is short-lived. Because Felicity glances up at him with trepidation in her eyes, and he knows she’s figured out something he missed. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“The lights are going to be mistimed,” Felicity says grimly.

Oliver moves closer to her, placing a hand on her shoulder again. “What?”

“Speed limit’s 40 here,” she answers quickly. “They engineer the lights to keep traffic on the main roads moving, so if you’re going about 40, you should get a nice long string of green lights.”

Oliver blinks. “Okay.”

She looks up at him, stress evident on her face. “We’re going too fast. We’re going to start hitting red lights.”

Oh.

& & &

Felicity is incredibly relieved when five patrol cars zip around the bus and take up their arrow-head position again. She just feels better with the escort in sight -- or maybe not _better_ , because she’s still driving around a very large bus with a very scary bomb affixed to it. Maybe less alone -- it’s a relief seeing this kind of proof that it’s more than just Oliver working to save them. 

Of course, another, more tangible benefit is that the cop cars have a triggering mechanism to commandeer the stoplights, which means she will _probably_ be able to keep them over 50 _without_ worrying about running red lights. Because she’s pretty confident she could get through a red light in her Mini by swerving; the best she’d have to hope for in this monster is to plow through and keep her fingers crossed for just glancing contact. 

She hates the idea of hurting innocent drivers because some psychopath decided to wire up _this_ particular bus this morning. She can’t even let herself consider the possibility that her attempts to keep everyone on the bus safe could cost someone else their life.

And -- she’s really starting to regret how thoughtlessly she took the wheel. Shouldn’t Oliver be driving? He’s the cop, right? Don’t cops get defensive driving courses? Though probably those classes don’t cover defensively driving _a bus_. But still. 

She might be starting to crack a little under the weight of this responsibility. 

“Oliver,” she says, glancing over at him. He’s standing beside her, one hand on the vertical bar, the other on his hip, keeping watch. She appreciates his proximity, especially when she realizes she needs a favor. “Could you...?” She trails off, twitching her shoulder to dislodge her cardigan before releasing the steering wheel with one hand to try to wriggle her way out of the sleeve.

Because adrenaline and panic? Yeah, that makes you really hot. She’s sweating, now, and her cute dress with the little cutout above her cleavage? Well, it may not be what she would’ve chosen to wear had she known she’d be moonlighting as a bus driver, but at least it’s ventilated. 

“Sure,” Oliver says. His voice sounds strange, a little rough around the edges, but before she has time to overanalyze that to death, his fingers are brushing against the skin of her shoulders, easing her arm free. 

Felicity would swear her skin is tingling in reaction. What is _wrong_ with her? She tilts away from him to work her left arm out of the sleeve, but Oliver murmurs, “Let me,” and his warm palm is on her back, gently urging her to lean just a little bit forward so he can reach behind her and help her with the other sleeve.

“Thanks,” she says, hoping to God her cheeks aren’t flushed like she thinks they are. She can’t bear to look at him while she’s still weirdly affected by the kind way he’d touched her, so she stares resolutely ahead as he pulls Barry’s phone from his pocket and dials.

“Tommy, we need to get off the streets. I need limited access, open spaces, pavement -- we need to try to limit--” Oliver stops short, and Felicity can feel the weight of his gaze when he glances at her. 

And she understands what he’s trying not to say -- driving what amounts to a massive weapon around city streets is endangering a whole lot of innocent people if they can’t defuse the bomb. 

If this goes all... _explosion-y_.

The thing to do is get the bomb as far away from everyone as possible. The thing to do is limit potential casualties.

Felicity shivers.

Because she’s a potential casualty, but she doesn’t really have a choice. Everyone on this bus -- they’re all innocent, too. 

“You okay?” Oliver asks, his voice quiet.

She hadn’t even noticed he’d ended his call. “What’s all this about?” she asks. Because everything’s been moving really, really fast, and she hasn’t had much time to focus on just how scary-high the stakes are. And now that she’s started to think about it, her heart is pounding really hard, and she knows she’s clenching the steering wheel too tightly. 

“Just a guy who wants money,” Oliver says. But for some reason she can read him pretty well, and she knows that’s the safe answer. The vague answer. But not the _real_ answer.

Felicity pins him with a skeptical expression for as long as she dares to look away from the road, which isn’t long, so she doesn’t actually expect it to have much of an effect on him. “I don’t believe that,” she adds flatly.

There’s a long moment where she can practically hear the gears turning in his brain. Then she jumps a little when his fingers land on her shoulder. “What makes you say that?”

“There are a lot easier ways to get money you didn’t earn,” she answers, steadfastly ignoring the way she’d just leaned into his touch. “Bombs and hostages, that’s...” She trails off with a shrug, and if that dislodges his hand, well, so much the better. Because he is a little distracting.

“He wants attention,” Oliver says. “He’s angry. I don’t know why, but he wants someone to see him, to notice him. This spectacle -- if he gets the money, he wins. If the bus--” Oliver stops, grimacing. “If he doesn’t, he still wins.”

 _If the bus blows up_ , that’s what Oliver stopped himself from saying. Felicity remembers the flaming husk from the video she’d watched and swallows hard. “What happens if we win?” She glances at him, noting the slight tension in his lips, the small furrow in his brow.

“Then he tries again tomorrow.”

It’s a horrible thought, and Felicity starts talking to block it out. “But I’m not available tomorrow,” she says, and then frowns a little, because-- “To drive, I mean, not like a date. Not that this kind of thing--” She waves an awkward hand between the two of them-- “is at all like a date. _Obviously_. And, wow, what kind of awful first date would that be if it got interrupted by a _bomb_?” She shakes her head, but logic and sense do _not_ jar themselves loose. “I’m just going to-- three, two, one.” She nods once. “Right. Sorry.”

Oliver doesn’t say a word, and when she can no longer stand it, she takes a quick, fearful look at him. He’s standing there watching her with wide eyes and a small, kind of devastating smile on his lips. God. He should be on movie posters.

Before she can fumble her way through another awkward, unintentional sort-of pass at him, the phone tucked in the cupholder near her knee starts to blare a pretty old, pretty terrible song. 

Felicity wrinkles her nose up at him. “Is that... Is that _Fall Out Boy_?”

His grin widens as he leans in a little closer to her to grab the ringing phone. But when he checks the display, all amusement is replaced with what looks a lot like rage. She knows the answer, but she asks anyway, “Is that the guy?”

“The asshole,” Oliver confirms.

Felicity wants to tell him to put it on speakerphone. She wants to hear the voice of the asshole who put them all in this situation. 

But she turns her attention back to the road ahead of her and tries not to eavesdrop.

& & &

Oliver brings the phone to his ear and answers with a distracted, “yeah,” as he works to dial Tommy on Barry’s phone, holding it close enough to his face so Tommy can maybe hear some of the conversation. It’s an awkward position, and doesn’t leave him a free hand to brace himself against the bumps and sways of a bus going fifty-five on surface streets. He bends his knees a little, spreading his feet, feeling strangely like his eleven-year-old skateboarding self.

“I’m impressed, kid,” the asshole announces. 

Oliver is immediately on edge -- he can’t quite believe he’d already forgotten the infuriating air of superiority the bomber injects into every syllable. But Oliver can’t afford to piss him off, so he says, “You need to let me take the driver off.”

“No one gets off the bus.”

He can feel the attention of the passengers as they strain to overhear this conversation, but he can’t worry about them. He can’t let their reactions color his conversation with the bomber. No matter what he has to say to build trust with this psychotic asshole.

Seriously, Tommy is _so_ much better at this part. Oliver can’t get past the dread he feels that he’ll manage to screw this up. “It’s a show of good faith,” he says. “The driver is sick. He needs a doctor.”

“Not my problem,” the bomber answers, his tone utterly dismissive.

Oliver is going to need to go ten rounds with the punching bag once this is all over. Because pushing down his instinctual and bone-deep loathing of this asshole is _incredibly_ difficult. “A dead hostage will be your problem. He’ll die without medical attention.” Oliver ignores the sharp glance Felicity gives him. 

“I,” the bomber answers, “had nothing to do with whatever health issue--”

“Without your bomb,” Oliver interrupts, “Quentin would have pulled over when he felt chest pains and called 911. You’re responsible for his lack of care.”

“Don’t push me, kid,” the bomber answers, sounding impatient and a little angry. “And don’t try your bullshit with me. _Use names to reinforce their humanity_. I know all your little tricks.”

Oliver can’t help the flash of frustration. “I’m trying to _help_ you,” Oliver answers. Loudly. Then Felicity presses her fingers against his bicep to catch his attention. When he glances down at her, she lets go and gives him a concerned frown, and something about this momentary interaction grounds him, drains some of the anger so he can temper his voice as he continues, “Let me get him off the bus. I’ll talk to my sergeant face to face. You haven’t spoken to them, only to me. The brass needs to know you’re serious before they’ll agree to give you your money.” 

“The brass,” he mutters bitterly.

“Let me help you get your money,” Oliver says, and it irks him that he’s practically _pleading_ with a psychopath. “We can all walk away happy.”

“Your sergeant,” he scoffs. “Why should I trust any goddamn thing those brass-coated traitors say?”

Oliver senses an opening. “You don’t have to trust them. Trust me. I won’t lie to you, and I won’t try to play you.”

“Why should I trust anyone on your side of the thin blue line?”

“Because I am very invested in keeping everyone on this bus alive. They’re more than a body count to me. And more importantly, I’m on the bus, too. If I don’t make sure you get your money, I don’t survive this. I want to save my own ass.” That last part is true as far as it goes. Oliver doesn’t have a death wish, but he certainly wouldn’t put his life above the life of anyone on this bus. However, if he’s trying to get a person who thinks killing random innocent people is a reasonable choice to trust him, he figures that last bit will help. Selfish people usually assume everyone else is selfish, too.

There’s a long silence on the phone, and Oliver is concerned he’s overplayed his hand. He’s also a little worried about facing the passengers after implying that Dig and Tommy and the rest of the bomb squad don’t really give a shit about them. But this phone call is about building some kind of trust with the bomber, so he’ll do what he needs to do.

“She’s quite something, your blonde friend,” the bomber says finally, and Oliver stiffens. “I can see why you’d want to keep her around. You can get the driver off, but then I want you back on the bus with your new friends.”

It’s something, and Oliver nods enthusiastically. “Deal.”

“Tick tock,” the asshole answers, then hangs up. 

Felicity reaches for the phone and tucks it back into the cupholder. Oliver gives her a little smile in thanks and pulls Barry’s phone to his ear. “Tommy, any luck?”

“He’s a real charmer,” Tommy answers immediately. “But, no, we weren’t able to get a full trace. Listen, we’ve got a flatbed truck we can pull alongside you, get you and the driver off--”

“There’s still a lot of traffic out here,” Oliver interrupts. “We need a controlled environment.”

“Oh,” Felicity chirps from beside him. “Controlled envir-- Yeah. This-- Hey, Oliver, _look_.”

He’s been distracted, his focus entirely on the phone call with the bomber. It feels like he’s been on this bus for hours, though he knows it hasn’t been very long, so even though they’ve been traveling at well over fifty the whole time, he’s still surprised to see they’ve made it as far away from downtown as they have. 

And pure, dumb luck has brought them to Sherwood Regional Airport, a private airstrip. In his young, wasted, wealthy youth, Oliver had flown in and out of Sherwood with his parents and Thea on their company jet. He hasn’t been here in years, but from what he remembers, there are at least three runways plus a network of taxiways 

“That’s perfect, Felicity,” Oliver breathes. Controlled access, miles of pavement -- he couldn’t have come up with a better option. “Tommy,” he says into the phone, “let Sherwood Airport know we’re going to need one of their runways for a little while. And let them know we’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

“Um,” Felicity says, tugging on his elbow. “I’m not sure we can make the turn.” She jerks her chin, urging him to look at... whatever she’s seeing that he isn’t. 

“What turn?” Oliver says, squinting as he looks ahead, his gaze following the perimeter fencing. The twelve-foot chain link zips along to their right, keeping all unauthorized traffic out of the airport. He looks more closely, following the chain link, looking for a break somewhere that Felicity has apparently spotted. There are guarded entrances with security measures, but he can’t see any until -- oh. 

Yeah. 

That’s-- “We can’t make that.” 

The entrance is pretty small, intended for cargo loading and unloading, not a bus hurtling through at highway speeds. Plus, it’s a right turn. Not a curve or an exit -- a hard right turn with little margin for error, considering there’s what looks like a guardhouse positioned between the entry and the exit.

And they’re coming up on it fast -- not a lot of time to finesse their plan. 

He glances down at Felicity, who looks terrified but determined, and runs through their options quickly. There are no entrances that will get them onto the actual runways that will be any easier, and they’re _here_ right now. Going past and trying to circle back seems just as chancy as trying this entrance. 

What it comes down to is protecting as many people as possible. Out here on the public roads, it’s more than just the people trapped on this bus whose lives are at stake. Oliver is determined to get every single passenger off of this bus safely, but he has to do his absolute best to minimize casualties if he can’t.

When he looks at Felicity again, she glances up quickly and gives him a nod. “I get it,” she says quietly. “We need to do this.”

It’s a strange moment, something calm and intimate and out of step with the general chaos of the rest of their day. But Oliver touches her shoulder and answers, “We’ve got this.” Then he speaks into the phone, “Tommy, tell them we’re here. Shipping gate. Right fucking now.” Oliver ends the call and pockets the phone. “Get all the way to the left,” he tells Felicity. 

Their escorts are zooming ahead, clearing as much road as possible for them. Felicity pulls the bus all the way over, driving the last block before the turn on the wrong side of the strangely empty street. Still, they’re going too fast for this kind of turn. Oliver really has no idea how this is going to play out.

Halfway down the block, Felicity says, “We’re gonna flip over.”

Oliver doesn’t even hesitate -- he turns to the passengers. “Everyone on this side of the bus, now!” They move quickly to the right, and he can hear prayers in a couple different languages, but he can’t let himself focus on that now. “Lean against the windows,” he adds, and turns back to the front.

They’ve got fifteen seconds, maybe ten before they have to make a hard right into a controlled entry that’s barely wide enough for a bus, never mind one banking hard and going fifty-plus miles an hour.

“They’re not gonna shoot us, are they?” Felicity asks as the security guards move rapidly away from the guardhouse. 

Oliver knows they’re clearing the blast radius, in case the bus can’t make the turn, but he doesn’t think it’ll be much help to share that with Felicity. So he just touches her shoulder and says, “No, they won’t shoot us. Go around the booth,” he says. “Far side.” It may give them a slightly better chance.

Five seconds. 

“Ready?” he asks.

“Not so much,” Felicity answers, just as she starts to yank the wheel around.

Oliver braces himself between the seat and the fare-collecting column and tries to help, pulling the wheel hard even as the tires whine in protest and the centripetal forces start to sway his body towards Felicity. 

He’s not sure, but he thinks the right front tire is off the ground, as the basic rules of physics try to tip the bus over. The tires on the pavement screech in protest, the bus is slipping sideways a little, fighting inertia as he and Felicity keep cranking the steering wheel.

Felicity is yelling, “Come on, come on,” and she’s got one leg propped against the dashboard for leverage, her heel wedged in the air vent and her skirt riding dangerously high on her leg.

And how is his brain even noticing that?

But he’s experiencing everything very brightly, and very, _very_ clearly, the details seared into his memory as the bus turns and turns and turns. The front left bumper glances off the fencing but they keep going, and then bus sideswipes the guard booth with a terrifying screech.

“No, no, no,” Felicity chants, and he can _feel_ the bus losing speed as they drag along the corner of the guardhouse, and then the engine revs a bit higher and they’re bursting free and that awful screeching is gone and all of the tires are on the ground and-- “Holy shit, we didn’t die!” Felicity beams up at him.

Feeling strangely giddy, he runs his hand up and down the back of her arm and grins back. “Felicity, you’re remarkable.”

She looks pleased and maybe a bit embarrassed when she answers. “Thank you for remarking on it.”

& & &

The blast of pure, buoyant relief hits Felicity like a wave as soon as the bus arcs out onto the smooth, flat pavement of Sherwood Airport’s taxiways.

At least she thinks she’s on a taxiway -- she’s not really up on airplane jargon, but she’s pretty sure runways have big white stripes on them. Instead, the strip of pavement she’s taking the bus along is unmarked, except for the occasional lighted sign with unintelligible jumbles of letters and numbers, like J19.

What the hell is J19?

Whatever. Doesn’t matter. She made that turn and they all _didn’t_ die, and she would give a celebratory fist pump, but she’s certain that her extremities are still shaking from the adrenaline rush.

Oliver touches her shoulder and then moves away, talking on Barry’s phone to his team and doing a little walk down the bus aisle and back. Felicity watches in the large mirror above the windshield. She knows he’s checking on the passengers, calming everyone and making sure no one’s injured. He stops for a long moment beside Quentin, crouching down and talking quietly.

Felicity tries to calm back down, tries to formulate a plan for circling on the runways and taxiways. There are no planes taxiing, and she wonders if the tower is holding all flights because of the pesky wired-to-explode bus on the premises.

She feels a little bad for interrupting strangers' days, but on the other hand, she’s driving a giant bomb, so there’s only so much empathy she has for inconvenienced flyers.

Whatever. She needs to focus and figure out their route around the airport. Because it’s not like she has a map for the private airport, and not even google maps could help her. Though maybe Google earth could. But there’s no time right now -- they’re coming to the end of the taxiway. Felicity eyes the runway to her left, gauging the turn she’ll have to make. The perpendicular swaths of pavement connecting the long taxiway to the runway are wide to accommodate planes, which makes the arcing turn easier, even at 53 miles per hour. 

Still, there’s not a lot of room for error, moving so fast in a big, sluggish bus.

The runway is wide and flat and straight and smooth, and the open expanse calms Felicity some. This, she can handle. Though it would be nice to know which runways were supposed to be operational so she can be sure to avoid _planes_ , but for the time being, she’ll just make sure she figures out where to turn and how not to get stuck in some sort of catastrophic dead-end situation. 

Which would end up being an explosion-y situation. 

She shudders a little, and, yeah, the warm fuzzies flee. Because she’s still driving a giant bomb around. And -- Felicity frowns as she needs a little stronger grip on the steering wheel to keep the bus moving straight down the dead center of the runway -- the bus is handling... _differently_. 

Not bad different, necessarily. It just feels a little stubborn. A little slow to respond. And her stomach drops -- something happened to the bus during the turn into the airport, and she has no way to figure out what. Or how bad it is. Or whether it’s something that will get progressively worse until -- _boom_.

She’s gripping the steering wheel too tightly, and makes herself take a slow, deep breath.

Her panic spiral is interrupted when she sees unexpected movement in her peripheral vision, alongside the passenger side of the bus. Felicity startles badly, and she ends up jerking the bus a little to the left. Away from what she _now_ sees is a flatbed truck with half a dozen cops on it, and _not_ some sort of looming threat.

“Sorry, sorry,” she apologizes loudly. “Clearly I had too much caffeine this morning.” Which is a lie -- she didn’t even manage to finish her latte before all of... _this_ happened. 

She uses the mirror to scan the passengers, making sure she didn’t topple anyone over or anything. Everyone appears upright and just, you know, at a regular level of bomb-related anxiety. And the fact that Felicity now _knows_ what is a reasonable amount of bomb-related anxiety the average person should have while trapped in close proximity to a bomb is the worst thing about her day so far.

When she checks the side mirror, she sees two black SUVs trailing the flatbed truck.

Oliver stands from his spot beside Quentin and catches her eye. “I think Mr. Lance’s ride is here.”

With a groan, Quentin pushes himself a little more upright in his seat but Felicity is concerned to see he’s still looks very pale and kind of sweaty. Still, he gives her a half-smile and says, “I expect you to visit me in the hospital this afternoon, okay?”

Felicity feels tears sting her eyes, because she really, really wants him to be okay, and she really, really wants to survive this day, but it’s hard to be very certain about either outcome. She swallows against the lump in her throat and manages, “Be nice to the nurses.”

Quentin nods. “You take care of my passengers,” he says gruffly. “All of ‘em.”

There’s no way Felicity can respond to that, so she nods and sniffles.

Oliver moves to her side, his hand landing on her shoulder again. “Just keep circling,” he says. “I’ll get Quentin on his way to the hospital, talk to the squad, and be right back.”

She glances up at him. “Okay.”

“The other door is easier access.” He gestures to the set of doors halfway back on the right, then leans close to her, reaching forward to tap the door controls. “Close them once we’re off.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “More aerodynamic that way, I know.” She considers telling him that there’s some sort of damage to the bus that’s making it even less nimble, but decides it doesn’t much matter right now. He needs to focus on Quentin. So she musters up a grin and taps her temple. “Genius, remember?”

His smile is wide and genuine and the skin beside his eyes crinkles in a really attractive way when he does that. “Of course I remember.” He takes a step back.

Before she has time to think about what she’s doing -- or talk herself _out_ of it -- she reaches out to tangle her fingers with his. His eyes widen and she fumbles for something to say. “Don’t forget about us.”

Oliver squeezes her hand before taking another step back, their hands still linked. He doesn’t let go of her until he has to, which makes her pulse jump a little. “I couldn’t possibly,” he answers, then turns to Quentin. “Ready to go?”

Felicity steadfastly ignores the way her heart is pounding, like, crazy fast as she holds the wheel steady and opens the door. The bus is still temperamental, wanting to list to the left unless she keeps it in line with a firm grip. Definitely something’s messed up with the alignment. At least. 

She steals glances in the mirror as Oliver, Ted, and Barry half-carry Quentin to the back door and lift him into the waiting arms of the officers on the flat bed. Felicity lets out a little gasp of relief. To her surprise, though, the flatbed immediately pulls away, leaving Oliver in the doorway. She’s about to ask him what’s going on when one of the trailing SUVs zooms up to the open door.

Felicity tells herself she’s being ridiculous, but she can’t stop herself from glancing over her shoulder to watch him leave. He pauses in the doorway, watching her for a moment with just the hint of a smile on his lips. Then he dips his chin and turns, stepping smoothly out onto the running board of the SUV.

The SUV eases away and speeds up, actually overtaking them. Felicity watches Oliver standing there on the running board, those crazy arms flexed and firm as he holds onto the cargo rack on the roof. It’s... weirdly hot. And, yes, okay, he's wearing the hell out of those cargo pants.

Just before the SUV pulls away, he glances back and their eyes meet again. Flushing slightly, Felicity gives him a dorky wave before she can stop herself, and he grins.

& & &

Oliver figures that Tommy’s driving the SUV because he wouldn’t let anyone else do it. 

Oliver’s touched, but also exasperated, because Tommy is a pretty inattentive driver, and Oliver would rather not be clinging like a barnacle to the side of an SUV that’s making unnecessarily high speed turns.

“Slow down, Tommy,” Oliver snaps, so of course Tommy essentially slams on the brakes so that Oliver tilts sideways from the momentum shift. He closes his eyes for a second, his grip tight on the luggage bar, feet spread to brace against exactly this kind of nonsense.

“Ooops, sorry, man.” Tommy brings the SUV to a rather abrupt halt at the collection of SUVs that is makeshift command central. WIth a relieved sigh, Oliver jumps down and heads directly for Diggle. 

There are a handful of uniformed officers, some of whom must be TSA agents from the airport, plus most of the SWAT team in their black tactical gear. The sight loosens some of the stress wound tight in Oliver’s chest. Because his backup is here -- he’s no longer all by himself on that bus. Reflexively, he glances back, locating the bus halfway down the runway, looking weirdly far away.

He feels a strange sense of guilt -- like he abandoned them. He knows it’s irrational, that he needs to be here to do his job, but it doesn’t sit right with him. Because now he’s safely away from the bomb, while the passengers are still in danger. 

Oliver turns back to the makeshift command center and speeds up. 

Sergeant Diggle sees them approaching and turns. “Oliver.” He half-turns away, picks up something, and tosses it to Oliver, who catches it on reflex.

It’s his tactical vest, and Oliver checks the pockets automatically. “Thanks,” he says, coming to a halt as a new part of the small semicircle around Diggle, “the bomber wants me back on the bus pretty fast.”

Diggle sweeps an evaluating gaze over him quickly. “Still in one piece?”

“I’m fine,” Oliver answers, shrugging into the tactical vest. It’s hotter out than he’d realized, and sunny, so pulling the warm, black vest isn’t the most pleasant feeling in the world. But Oliver is used to this particular form of discomfort. “Is the driver--”

“Already en route to the hospital,” Tommy interrupts, joining them and giving Oliver a slap on the back. “How’s the situation on the bus?”

Oliver considers his answer. “Stable for now. The passengers are scared, but not panicking.” The zipper of his tactical vest snags, and he looks down, struggling to release the bit of his t-shirt that made its way into the zipper teeth. “Felicity is doing a pretty amazing job driving,” he adds absently.

He realizes there’s an odd pause in the conversation and looks up, confused.

Tommy has the most irritatingly smug expression on his face when he says, “Felicity, huh?”

But Diggle saves Oliver from having to answer. “Boys, focus. You cleared the passengers?” he asks Oliver.

It’s a reasonable question -- some bombers _would_ want to be up close and personal, even if it means their own death. Some bombers are willing to die for their fucked up causes. But not this guy. “No, definitely not a passenger,” Oliver answers. “The asshole called me while I was on the bus. He’s angry, feels like he’s been wronged, but he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else -- if he were on the bus, he wouldn’t have been able to resist calling attention to himself.”

Diggle accepts this conclusion with the slightest twitch of his eyes. “Anyone with training or special skills?” 

Diggle’s an excellent strategic thinker, and an unparalleled tactician. He’s able to formulate plans of attack using every possible advantage. But Oliver doesn’t like the idea of using _any_ of the passengers. “Dig, I don’t--”

“We need as much information as possible, Oliver,” Diggle interrupts. He’s got a compassionate look on his face, but his tone is no-nonsense. “We all want them safely off the bus. But until we can make that happen, we need to use what we’ve got. Okay?”

Oliver thinks about the motley crew on the bus. “Ted had some combat medic training, so he’s ex-military. There’s a guy on board who panicked, thought I was after him. But he’s been fine since I disarmed him.”

Diggle raises his eyebrows. “Disarmed?”

“Knife. It was nothing. He’s not a threat.” Oliver pauses, going over his mental catalog of passengers. “There are three elderly passengers, no kids, thank God. The others could help in specific situations. No obvious strengths or weaknesses to consider.”

Dig just grunts, his mind no doubt churning through options.

Tommy rocks back on his heels. “And what about Felicity? She’s driving, right?”

Oliver still doesn’t like the knowing lilt to Tommy’s voice, but he ignores that and answers the question. “She’s friends with Quentin, and she was sitting close when he collapsed. Just kind of happened.”

“Can she handle it?”

Oliver fights the smile threatening, because this isn’t the time _or_ the company for it. “She’s been phenomenal so far. She’s also incredibly smart and has good instincts.”

Tommy just stares at him. “ _Phenomenal_?” he repeats.

“Enough, Merlyn,” Diggle snaps. “We need a plan to get the passengers off the bus.”

Oliver half-turns away, scanning the skies. There are a couple helicopters -- presumably news choppers -- hovering a good distance away. “Can we get them to stop broadcasting? He said no one gets off the bus.”

“We can ask,” Diggle answers, he scans the collection of cops and yells, “Harper.”

The rookie takes two long steps to reach them, hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, sir.” 

Oliver grimaces a little, uncomfortable around the rookie now that his sister is determined to date him. He wants Thea to be happy, and he mostly likes Harper, though he’s a little rough around the edges and has a pretty large chip on his shoulder. But something about the idea of Thea with Harper sets Oliver’s teeth on edge.

“Get on the phone to every news station with a chopper and get them to stop broadcasting,” Diggle orders. “They can record, but broadcasting right now will endanger the lives of the hostages.” 

Oliver glances at the bus again, tiny in the distance. Sun glints off the metal as Felicity eases it into a turn along one of the taxiways, before arcing back onto one of the runways. “We’re gonna need gas,” he says as he turns back to Dig. “It’s okay for now, but it’ll be an issue soon. That bus isn’t exactly a model of fuel efficiency.”

Diggle nods, but says, “I’d rather get everyone off and blow the bus than try to figure out how to refuel it at fifty miles an hour.”

It’s a good point. Oliver’s not even sure where a bus’s gas tank access is. “Agreed.” 

As Diggle and Tommy and Caitlin start discussing options, Oliver’s attention is drawn back to the bus, which is passing as close to this little staging area as it will get. It’s not close enough for him to see Felicity; the passengers are just vague shapes from this distance. He _needs_ to get back onto the bus. 

But what they really need is a good look at the bomb, a way to save the passengers before the bomber gets impatient.

And then he lifts a hand to pause the ongoing conversation. “Guys, I have an idea how we can examine the bomb. Maybe even defuse it.”

Tommy sighs. “This is going to be a terrible idea, isn’t it?”

& & &

With Oliver off doing important cop things and Quentin off receiving medical treatment, it dawns on Felicity that she is now fully and solely responsible for the lives of everyone on the bus. She’s a little nauseated at the thought, because that’s a _lot_ of responsibility. 

Nervously, she glances in the mirror, her gaze skipping from one passenger to the next. They look worried. Well, _obviously_ , it’s a pretty worrying situation. But as things stand, all of the men and women on the bus with her are in the same amount of danger, but she’s the one who needs to keep the bus going -- keep them all alive.

And then Felicity starts to get mad. Like, _really_ mad at the asshole who put them all in this position just because he wanted money. Is paying off his mortgage really worth two dozen lives?

Felicity’s hands clench tightly on the steering wheel until her muscles ache. She makes another looping, a-little-too-fast-for-such-an-unwieldy-bus, 180-degree turn from the taxiway that parallels the runway onto the runway itself.

A utility truck of some kind pulls out in front of the bus, maybe 40 yards ahead, and Felicity fights the urge to ease off the gas in response. Because, yeah, really not an option.

Then the black-clad figures standing and crouching on the back of the truck register as SWAT team members, and she realizes this must be some sort of attempt to defuse the bomb. 

Her stomach churns.

Because they deal with these kinds of situations, sure, but... this is a little extreme. And defusing a bomb with a bunch of civilians sitting basically on top of it is, Felicity’s sure, _nonstandard_. She just needs someone to talk to her about this, to explain what’s going on.

Knowledge is power, and she is trapped on this stupid bus with this stupid bomb and no access to the cops that are making decisions that could end up killing her. “I hate this,” she mutters, glaring unreasonably at the cops moving around on the utility truck.

One cop stands out. His back is to her, but he’s not wearing the head-to-toe, black-on-black-on-black tactical gear; instead, he’s got tan cargo pants with just a black tactical vest over a white t-shirt. Then he turns and her suspicion is confirmed.

Oliver.

She lets herself feel the relief that he hasn’t abandoned them for just a moment. And, if she’s totally honest, she’s quite appreciating the view -- because the man can wear a pair of pants. And adding a black tactical vest to the picture is just unfair.

Her inappropriate observations must be why it takes her so long to realize that he’s moving. Actually, he’s climbing down onto the bumper and then -- holy shit, is that a _mechanic’s cart_ being towed along behind the truck? A tiny little cart with tiny little wheels that’s only intended to allow people to slide under car carriages.

Is he _really_ \--?

“That guy is crazy,” Barry mutters, and Felicity has no idea how long he’s been standing beside her. Something irrational and scared inside of her protests his nearness. Because she likes Barry just fine, but that’s where Oliver is supposed to be standing.

“Hey,” she says, “get your ass behind the yellow line.”

Barry grins at her, but complies. “I mean, he’s crazy, but he’s definitely brave.”

Felicity turns her attention back to Oliver, who’s lying prone on the cart. The cart with the small, solid-state wheels that can’t possibly be structurally sound at _fifty-six miles per hour_. What happens if one of those teeny tiny wheels hits a pebble?

She realizes she’s been chanting, “Oh, God, oh, God,” and tries to make herself stop.

The other cops are extending the tow cable, and Oliver’s cart is getting closer and closer. Felicity nervously checks ahead, gauging how much runway they have left for this little experiment. Because runways are long, sure, but they’re also going 54 -- they’re going to run out of pavement, and tiny carts on tow cables will _not_ handle turns.

When she looks back down, Oliver is watching her. He is eerily calm -- and he should really talk to someone about his serious lack of self-preservation instincts. He lifts an arm, the edge of his palm toward her, and he slices his hand up and down, urging her to stay straight.

Felicity fights the urge to roll her eyes -- because _obviously_ \-- and gives him a quick nod.

Slowly, he disappears beneath the bus, and she’s anxious and breathing entirely too fast. He’s an insane person. A crazy lunatic riding on a tin cart beneath a bus with a _bomb_ on it. Who _does_ that?

Incongruously, a song begins to play, and for a moment, Felicity is sure she has finally just straight up lost her mind.

But -- it’s Fall Out Boy, and she really hopes her mind would provide a much less lame soundtrack to her eventual psychotic break. 

Oh. Oliver’s phone.

She tenses even more, because probably the person on the other end of this particular call is the asshole that put a bomb on the bus. She’s not sure she should answer, since Oliver is the one with _any_ sort of training around talking to psychos. Felicity can’t even talk to, like, baristas or coworkers without rambling incoherently and sometimes accidentally hitting on them. She should definitely _not_ be allowed to talk to bombers. 

But is it better to _not take the call_ if he gets offended by that and--

She doesn’t let herself follow _that_ train of thought to its logical conclusion.

Very carefully, Felicity pulls the ringing phone from the cupholder, answers it on speakerphone, and drops it into her lap. “Detective Queen’s phone.”

“And just where is your police officer friend, blondie?” asks a voice, derision dripping from each Australian-accented syllable.

Felicity has a sudden and visceral reaction to his voice. She’s always considered herself a good judge of character, and this guy? Is bad news. Like, _obviously_ , what with the bombing. But -- even just his voice, his _attitude_ is enough for her to dislike him. A lot.

“He’s not available just now,” she answers, “but I’m happy to take a message.” And -- is she really _sassing_ the bomber right now?

“That’s an awfully flippant attitude,” he says loudly; yells almost, “considering I hold your life in my hands.”

Felicity can feel her pulse pounding, and she is regretting every second of her day since she woke up. Oliver’s being dragged on a tiny cart under the bus and the bomber is pissed at her. Her limbs feel numb, and she makes herself focus on the speedometer. She can’t afford to get distracted and let the bus drift under 50, but maintaining speed plus holding the bus steady and straight for Oliver plus talking to the bomber -- it’s a lot.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaks. “He took Quentin off for medical help. He’ll be back soon. Really.”

“Or,” the bomber answers, quieter now, but so malicious, “he’s saving his own ass and leaving the rest of you to suffer in his place.”

Felicity has the distinct impression that the bomber is a few ingredients short of a crumbcake. “Oliver wouldn’t do that,” she argues, then curses under her breath. Why is she antagonizing the unbalanced guy with the remote detonator? She adds, “The truck the cops are using isn’t far. I’m sure he’ll be back on the bus in a couple minutes.”

“I can see why he likes you, blondie,” the bomber says, and it makes her skin crawl. “If he’s not back on the bus in five minutes, he’ll be scraping pieces of you off the pavement.”

Felicity gags a little, her grip deathly tight on the steering wheel, and the phone gives the low beep that signifies a disconnection. He hung up. 

She’s braced for an explosion, half-convinced she’d pissed him off enough to just blow them all up right now. After a few long seconds of _not dying_ , she tries to make herself relax. 

Fighting off the panic attack threatening to overwhelm her, Felicity focuses instead on the passengers in the mirror. They all heard most of her conversation, and now there’s a nervous energy on the bus that she doesn’t like.

“Barry,” she calls, trying really hard to sound calm, collected, and in charge. But she’s not a cop and she’s not trained for this and she’s pretty sure her voice shakes little bit. “Give your cellphone number to anyone with a phone. We need to call Oliver and tell him--”

There’s a loud bang from just below her feet -- blown tire, she realizes -- and she has to fight harder to keep the bus straight. 

An instant later, the back tires very obviously hit something -- _run over_ something. The back end of the bus tilts briefly, then settles back.

Felicity can’t move, can’t breathe.

 _Oliver_.

END CHAPTER


	3. Chapter 3

Mechanics’ carts are not intended for high speeds.

In fact, they’re not intended for anything close to how Oliver’s using this one. But necessity is the mother of invention and all that, so he’s hurtling along on this damn cart with small wheels and absolutely no shocks, dangerously close to several very large and very deadly bus tires. This would be impossible on the city streets; the runways are kept much, much more level and manicured. Even still, every slight imperfection of the runway jolts through his entire body, so he’s got his free hand braced on a pipe running along the bus’s underbelly just to keep himself steady.

Which works until it doesn’t.

Oliver feels it before the sound registers. 

The cart beneath him jerks and begins to slide sideways, the metal digging into his shoulder. Before he can think about it, he just reacts. The screwdriver becomes an impromptu handle with the blade jammed into the metal above him, and he lifts his feet up, scrabbling for purchase among the pipes and flat surfaces of the bus’s underside. 

The cart skitters away and goes under the back tire, jostling the bus almost enough to dislodge him from his precarious perch. The tow cable zips by, the snapped end swipes his thigh hard enough to sting.

“Fuck,” he yells.

Tommy’s talking in his ear, sounding panicked, but Oliver absolutely does not have a spare speck of focus. There’s gas dripping from the hole he’d inadvertently punctured in the gas tank, and he’s basically holding himself up purely by his arms, using every bit of core strength to keep himself flush against the underside of the bus, barely a foot above the pavement. 

It’s not a sustainable solution. 

It’s not even a short-term solution -- he’s got forty-five, maybe sixty seconds.

“Fuck me.”

He looks around, desperate for an option _other_ than letting go and probably dying or -- and it’s ridiculous that this would be _best case_ \-- having obscene amounts of road rash along most of his body if he can manage to avoid the back wheels.

Oliver’s grip on the screwdriver is getting tenuous -- the leaking gas makes the hard plastic slick, and his fingers are beginning to slip. One of his feet loses purchase, and his heel scrapes along the ground for a second, nearly destabilizing his delicate balance before he recovers. His arms are straining with the effort, his abs screaming, his death grip on what he assumes is the gas line is most of what’s keeping him alive.

And then he hears -- his name? 

Oliver tilts his head back and sees Ted, hanging from the waist through the access panel, just a couple feet away. Ted has an arm outstretched, and only a moderately panicked look on his face.

“Come on,” Ted yells. “ _C’mon_ \-- gimme your hand.”

Oliver shouts, “Are you anchored?” Because he _really_ doesn’t want to die, but he won’t endanger anyone else just to save his own skin.

“They’ve got my legs,” Ted answers, gesturing impatiently. “Come on!”

The access panel is too far and Oliver’s way too close to the road to just grab Ted and get pulled in -- he’d hit pavement and get dragged under. Instead, he’ll have to make his way closer to Ted. Basically, Oliver has to scale the underside of the bus like -- he shakes his head a little bit -- like a spider monkey. He wonders, briefly, what Felicity thinks of all of this.

Then he shakes it off and starts to move. “Let me get closer,” he tells Ted. With a deep breath, he lets go of the screwdriver and reaches over his head, wrapping his hand around a -- shit, a _really fucking hot_ pipe. 

Hissing, Oliver shifts forward, inching his legs up, finding just enough purchase to keep himself parallel to the bus. His muscles are protesting, shaking with exertion, but he breathes through it, taking in big, gasping gulps of air. As soon as he can, he releases the exhaust pipe and reaches for Ted. “Just give me a counterweight,” he yells, “until I’m closer.”

Ted clasps Oliver’s wrist and tightens his grip, and then Oliver feels Ted’s other hand on his bicep, taking a little of the pressure off. He inches his free hand up the gas line, and he’s got both feet on the gas tank, but he’s gonna have to let go and trust that his core strength is enough to keep his legs parallel to the bus.

Enough to keep his legs from hitting the ground, catching, and dragging him out of Ted’s grasp.

Oliver’s so close to the opening, now. Ted guides his hand up to the edge of the opening, then braces his hands under Oliver’s armpits. 

It’s now or never, so Oliver releases the pipe and gets his other hand on the lip of the access panel, and all that’s keeping his feet off the ground are his protesting abs. Oliver grunts with the effort, pulling his entire body weight -- save what Ted can support from his position -- up far enough to get his elbows and upper arms onto the floor of the bus. His toes are scrabbling against the bus’s underside, trying to push himself along and stay up off the pavement.

And then there are more hands, half a dozen, maybe, all grabbing at him and helping him and dragging him up, and Oliver collapses onto his stomach on the filthy bus floor. And he laughs. Just for a second. 

His arms are shaking. His abs, too, like he just finished a brutal workout. But he really doesn’t have time for recovery, so he rolls onto his back and pushes himself up to a seated position. “Thanks,” he says to Ted, who offers him a hand to help him to his feet. He wobbles a little, but catches himself with a hand on the back of a nearby seat.

“Are you okay?” asks Barry, eyes wide. “That was-- That was _insane_.”

“I’m fine.” Oliver claps him on the shoulder as he moves to Felicity’s side. He’s a little steadier now, but his hands are still shaking, which he chooses to attribute to adrenaline and not fear. Still, he feels strangely calmer once he reaches Felicity.

She looks panicky, and also like she’s mad about it. Her cheeks are flushed as she glares up at him. “You are a complete jerk,” she says, and smacks his arm for good measure. 

Oliver can feel his eyebrows lifting, but can’t control his reaction to her. He’s smiling at her in disbelief even as he says, “Excuse me?” 

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she demands, and if he thought she was stunning before, that was nothing to the vibrancy of Felicity fired up about something. Even if it’s him.

He makes himself focus. “Not at all.”

Then she frowns up at him. “You smell like gasoline.” She rubs her fingers together, frowning. “Why do you -- we’re leaking gas?”

Oliver glances down at his t-shirt and realizes that the left sleeve is drenched in gas. “Yes,” he answers belatedly.

Both of them study the gas gauge, which is now down to about a quarter of a tank. And then Oliver realizes he can _see_ the gauge moving lower.

She turns wide eyes back to him. “What -- you thought we needed a higher degree of difficulty?”

He shrugs. “It was an accident.” He’s still too relieved from the _not dying_ that he doesn’t want to think too hard about the missed opportunity of his ever-so-brief close look at the bomb. Because that avenue is clearly closed to them at this point, so he needs to focus on finding a better solution -- a way to get everyone off the bus.

Felicity gives him a strange look and lowers her voice. “Pretend to hug me.”

Oliver wrinkles his brow, totally thrown. “Excuse me?”

“Pretend to hug me,” she repeats, tilting her head like that will help him decipher whatever coded message she’s trying to convey. “Oliver!”

He has no idea why, but he promptly does as she asks. Leaning down, he ends up with his chest pressed against her shoulder, one arm sliding around her back and the other hanging by his side so he doesn’t accidentally grope her. But he’s really close to her and she loops her right arm up, her palm resting against the nape of his neck to hold him still. Oliver’s nose is in her hair, and he can’t help but inhale the fresh, slightly citrusy scent of her perfume. He can’t help but savor it.

When she turns her head towards him, their cheeks are millimeters apart. Oliver is frozen in place and a little baffled until she murmurs, “I think he has a camera on the bus.”

Surprised, he lets out a breath, and she shivers and releases her hold on him immediately. Oliver tries to focus on the problem at hand and not the way Felicity reacts to him. “A camera?”

“He called me _blondie_ ,” she answers, keeping her voice low. “There must be video, but I’m not sure about audio.”

Oliver jerks upright, staring down at her. “How do you know--? Did he call while I was--?” And then it clicks -- the bomber had referred to her as if he knew what she looked like. “ _Shit_ ,” Oliver says, jerking his head up to check the mirror.

“Don’t,” she warns, reaching out to touch her fingertips to his arm, and apparently he reacts to her, too, considering the way his focus just narrowed to the sight of her bright fingernails against his skin. “Just-- Can you get me my phone?”

Oliver gives her his confused face again. “Why?”

She smiles up at him, and it’s blinding in its sincerity. “Let’s see if we can’t outthink him.”

& & &

Felicity waits, somewhat impatiently, for Oliver to locate her cellphone in her bag. Which really shouldn’t be hard, since it’s got a bright purple case and a sticker on the back with DO AS PEGGY SAYS in, like, 24-point, sparkly aqua letters.

It’s a very distinctive phone case.

Oliver returns, holding it up with a quirked brow. “Should I ask?”

“Is that judgment I hear?” she demands. Because she does not tolerate backtalk on the subject of Peggy Carter.

"I didn't say anything," Oliver protests.

Felicity points at his face. “I can still hear _unspoken_ judgment, you know," she warns, even though that makes no actual sense, "and you have Fall Out Boy as your ringtone, so...”

He huffs a laugh.

“Okay, my password,” she says, then stops, waiting for him to be ready. Then they reach the end of the taxiway and she says, “One second.” She has the hang of the turns now, but she can’t afford to get comfortable. She keeps watch over the speedometer as they lose some speed around the arc of the turn, then presses the gas to accelerate back up to 55. 

She doesn’t have a lot of faith that the bomb’s calibration is accurate. When they hit 55, she gives a little nod and glances up at Oliver.

“You’re okay sharing it?” he asks.

“You’ll never remember it,” she answers. Then she shrugs. “Plus I’ll just change it later.” He seems entirely too amused by her, and she tries really hard not to pay any attention to the way he's looking at her. It's like he's smiling, but he's doing it by _not quite_ smiling. It’s... hard to explain. And to resist. “Ready?” He nods and she begins to rattle off her password. “F. Capital R. At sign. C. Capital--”

“Wait, at sign?” Oliver interrupts. “You mean the symbol in email addresses?”

Felicity gives him a very judgy shake of her head. “Yes. At sign,” she repeats. “C. Capital K. Four. Two. C. Y. Capital L. O. N. Capital S.”

Oliver stares at her uncertainly. “What is that?”

“My password.” She smirks at him. “Told you you wouldn’t remember it.” Or understand it -- he doesn’t really look like he watches a lot of TV. He’s probably too busy working out and getting all muscle-y. Which she certainly appreciates, so probably it’s a good life choice for him. She gives him a minute to unlock the phone. “Look for a small blue icon that says Yoga Playlist.”

Oliver frowns. “Is this about my taste in music?”

She sighs. “Just -- trust me.”

When his fingers land gently on her upper arm, she jerks her head up to meet his gaze. He’s so, so earnest when he says, “I do trust you.”

Felicity has to force herself to look away -- and to breathe normally. Luckily, he’s too occupied trying to find the app she told him about to notice. He’s searching through her phone, brow furrowed in concentration, and something about the way his face is scrunched up is just completely charming. It should clash with that commanding, scruffy-faced, man’s man kind of thing he has going on, but somehow it just makes him look even more attractive. It’s kind of unfair.

“Got it,” he tells her.

Keeping her gaze firmly on the expanse of pavement in front of her, Felicity walks him through a couple commands to run a query. It’s a program she designed to identify all the over-air signals around her -- more than just standard bluetooth and wifi. When he turns the screen toward her, she sees more entries than she expected, and asks him to read them one at a time, exactly as they appear. She has to bite down on a smile as he very carefully complies. 

One by one, she considers the frequency, the strength, and the data amounts identified by her program, and discounts them. The fourth result, though -- she’s pretty sure that’s bingo. 

Oliver looks at her, curious. “What does that mean?”

But Felicity shakes her head. There’s an awful lot of data being broadcast. The signal’s strong, and most likely from the bus. It’s almost definitely video, giving the bomber some idea of what’s happening on the bus, but she’s not sure yet if audio is included. Quickly, Felicity considers their options.

She could easily jam the signal -- her phone is highly tailored to her specifications, and there’s been more than one occasion where having a cellphone signal jammer has come in incredibly handy. But would the bomber assume camera failure, or would he think the signal was detected? 

Either way, he might not react well to losing the feed. And since that could easily mean _death_ , Felicity would prefer to pass on that option. Unless the signal jammer would also block whatever EXPLODE NOW signal he would have to send to detonate the bomb. She considers that -- it’s certainly possible, but she’s far from a munitions expert, and she doesn’t have any way to confirm. _Hoping_ the cellphone jammer would work is a pretty big risk to take with so many lives at stake.

They could-- Wait-- 

Felicity straightens up, running through the logistics as fast as possible. It _could_ work. It might work. It might work... really well?

They could try to record the signal, and then replace the live feed with the recorded footage. So then the bomber would see what he expects -- a bus full of people circling endlessly -- while they do something totally else. Like _evacuate the bus_.

Huh.

It’s kind of perfect. 

Felicity feels the flush of excitement, and she glances up at Oliver, wishing she could just blurt this all out. But first, she makes herself think about the risks. Like something on the video giving them away. Like her phone glitching and not transmitting properly. Plus the footage would need to be looped. Like a Vine. A seamless Vine.

A really important, _life or death_ Vine.

She shivers a little, and reconsiders whether to suggest this. Because she’s good and her coding is good, and she’s upgraded or created most of the apps on her phone. But splicing video together to create funny nonsense is not exactly as important as what she’s thinking of trying.

Not getting any Facebook likes isn’t really the kind of _downside_ they’re facing here.

But they’re losing gas, they’re on a clock that’s winding down anyway, and the bomber isn’t exactly the poster boy for stability and kindness. So. Maybe it’s worth the risk?

Her stomach is churning with the magnitude of this decision. She glances up at Oliver, who’s still watching her with curiosity and something she can’t quite name. Biting her lip, she dips her chin, just a bit, hoping he’ll be able to understand what she wants. Hoping he’ll figure out she needs to whisper something to him again, just in case the video feed has audio.

His expression sparks with understanding, and she feels a warm flush of pleasure that they’re able to communicate wordlessly.

Then he drops her phone on the floor and she yelps in genuine horror. “Oliver!” Because -- what the hell? Her tech is the only possible solution she’s come up with, and it’s better than his _mechanic’s cart_ gambit, so he’d best be careful with her phone.

When he crouches beside her, pretending to search for the phone near her feet, he doesn’t look at her. “What are you thinking?” he asks quietly.

Felicity forces her mind back on the task, because apparently this is his _pretending to drop her phone_ gambit, except with actual phone dropping. She forces her irritation aside. “Capture the signal, record a circuit,” she says, gesturing outside the bus to encompass their established runway-turn-jetway-turn route, “loop it, broadcast it, get off the bus.”

Oliver jerks his head up at that, staring at her for a long moment as he processes her suggestion. And then he starts to grin. “We can do that?”

He seems entirely too confident in this plan, but she manages a wan smile. “We can try.”

& & &

Oliver carefully holds as still as possible.

He’s standing beside Felicity, one hand on the vertical bar behind her seat, the other protectively curled around her cellphone. Which -- he _hopes_ \-- is recording the camera feed being broadcast over-air for the rest of this loop of the airfield. He realizes his hands are shaking a little from the nerves. Because her plan is brilliant, sure, but he’s more of a hands-on kind of problem-solver. Defuse the bomb. Punch the bad guy. Direct action, basically. 

This kind of sleight-of-hand takes a lot more trust, and, well, sometimes he has trouble with that. But Felicity -- though he’s only known her for like an hour and a half at this point -- is brilliant and brave and if he’s going to trust anyone to outthink the bomber, it’s gonna be her. 

Plus, this _has_ to work, because they are rapidly running out of options. The gas situation is moving from a concern to a _problem_ ; they’re starting to get too close to the bomber’s deadline for Oliver’s liking; and probably worst of all, Felicity is having trouble keeping the bus steady. She’d waved off his concern when he asked about it, but he can see the muscles in her arms straining in a way they weren’t before.

He knows they blew a tire -- remembers vividly how close the flying rubber had come to dislodging him from the mechanic’s cart -- and he suspects more damage than they’d realized had been done when they careened onto the airfield. He hadn’t been paying much attention at the time -- preoccupied, understandably, by hoping they could even make the turn -- but the entrances and exits probably had road spikes that are _designed_ to damage and incapacitate unauthorized vehicles.

“Ready,” Felicity murmurs, pulling his attention back to the present.

Oliver reevaluates their position and realizes they’re about to turn back onto the taxiway. Which means he needs to stop the recording when they hit that small bump in the asphalt. Felicity swears the slight juggling of the recorded footage will help mask the loop. 

“Yeah,” he answers, his finger hovering over the button. He triple checks, then waits for the-- _there_. Oliver quickly touches the screen, and then sighs in relief when the app shows that it’s processing the video file.

Felicity glances up at him, a hopeful look on her face. “Yeah?”

“Think so,” he answers. They already know, thanks to her technological expertise and the programs she’d written for her phone, that the feed doesn’t have audio, so he doesn’t bother to speak quietly.

She grins -- her dimple are unspeakably adorable -- and raises her voice. “Barry?”

The younger man is beside them before Oliver has fully turned, and he startles a little at Barry’s quickness. Oliver gives him a slightly irritable look.

“Yes?” Barry asks, his eyebrows lifting as he glances back and forth between them. 

Felicity keeps her eyes on the pavement before her. “Any chance you know how to use Magisto?”

Barry brightens, practically bouncing on his toes. “Absolutely!”

Feeling only the slightest bit left out, Oliver hands over her phone, walking Barry back to his seat to explain the plan. Again. In a little more detail than the _everyone needs to sit still and look dejected for an entire loop around the airfield, starting... now_ than he’d supplied earlier. Oliver pauses, studying the younger man. “Are you sure you can do this?”

In an instant, Barry’s slightly goofy demeanor is replaced by a quiet confidence, and he nods once. “I’ve got this.”

Oliver can see the weight of their shared situation on the younger man’s shoulders, and he’s reminded, suddenly and somewhat bizarrely, of Harper. Both men are trying to do their best, and uncertain, though that insecurity comes out in vastly different ways. Harper is a sarcastic pain in the ass, while Barry seems much more open with his doubts. “Good,” Oliver says, injecting all the confidence he can into his tone. “And, Barry?”

“Yeah?”

“Work as fast as you can, okay?”

Barry grins. “Consider it done.” He nearly tumbles back into his seat, his fingers flying over the touchscreen of Felicity’s phone as he works.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of nervous anticipation. Oliver gravitates back to Felicity’s side, even as he reiterates their plan to Tommy over the comms. 

“We’ve got it,” Tommy drawls.

Oliver feels a flash of irritation. “Would you just please check again that no news stations are broadcasting live footage.”

“Oliver,” Tommy answers, and the patience in his voice scrapes along Oliver’s nerves. He hates being handled. “Harper is on it. Diggle’s got all the pieces in place. We’re not gonna let anything go sideways, okay?”

Oliver releases the comm controls and takes a deep, steadying breath. Then he activates the mic again and when he speaks, the nervous tension is mostly gone. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Tommy says, his voice crackling a little with what Oliver recognizes as pre-mission tension. The familiarity makes Oliver smile. “We’re ready,” Tommy says. “Just give me the high sign. Oh,” Tommy adds with a healthy dose of humor in his voice, “and don’t get dead.”

“Yeah,” Oliver huffs a laugh in response. “That’s the goal.” And that familiar preternatural calm settles over him, like this is just another mission now that there’s finally something for him to _do_. He’ll get these people off the bus with his team’s help. He moves to the passenger side of the bus and peers out as they pass near the SWAT command center. He can see the two SUVs idling, pointed towards the taxiway, and a bright white passenger transport bus rolling into position.

“Detective?” 

Oliver turns, and Barry is holding Felicity’s phone for him. Oliver accepts it and levels Barry with a look. “Thank you.” 

Barry nods and turns his attention to Felicity. “Is that-- You’re going to broadcast the footage? From your _phone_?”

The incredulity in Barry’s voice catches Oliver’s attention, and he joins the younger man in staring expectantly at Felicity.

Who blushes a little and shrugs one shoulder. “I customized my phone a little bit.”

“That’s incredible,” Barry says, “you’re very talented.”

Felicity shrugs again. “I’m pretty good with technology,” she allows with a smile that has a definite edge of pride to it. 

Oliver is surprised to feel a little twinge of jealousy that Barry can so easily understand Felicity’s brilliance. Because Oliver is good at a lot of things, but he’s not particularly technologically gifted. As Thea is happy to remind him. Repeatedly.

“I’ll say,” Barry answers. “So did you--?”

“Barry,” Oliver interrupts, lifting his eyebrows. Because there’s a time and place, and this absolutely isn’t it.

“Oh!” Barry nods. “Sorry. I’ll just...” He jerks a thumb in the direction of his seat, then turns and moves back down the aisle.

“Everyone,” Oliver says, letting his gaze skip from passenger to passenger. “Please keep still a little while longer. As soon as we start broadcasting this footage, we’ll evacuate the bus.”

When he turns back to Felicity, she’s got one hand out for her phone, which he places into her palm. “Watch the speedometer,” she says, thumbing through her apps as she keeps her other hand on the wheel. She pauses, glances up at him. “ _And_ the road.”

He can’t help but grin at her, half-turning so she’s blocked from the camera feed, then reaching for the steering wheel. “Use both hands,” he urges, “I’ve got this.”

Her smile is a little concerned this time, but she lets go of the wheel. Oliver curses when he feels just how hard the bus is pulling to the left. And she never said a word, or let on to the passengers that the situation was deteriorating even more rapidly than they’d imagined. “Felicity...” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say -- some combination of an apology for not noticing, and a thank you for handling everything with such grace, maybe.

Felicity has already turned her attention to her phone, but she murmurs, “Yeah, it’s bad, Oliver.”

He has no idea how she’s been so calmly coming up with brilliant plans to use the bomber’s own safeguards against him while fighting to keep the bus moving forward, but he’s even more impressed by her than he was five minutes ago. And he was already pretty damn impressed.

Oliver keeps the bus steady, and his arms remind him pretty quickly that he’s already pushed his body pretty hard today with his little hanging-under-the-bus escapade. He grits his teeth and ignores the protest, his gaze flicking between the road, the speedometer, and Felicity’s face as she works. Her fingers are nimble on the screen, and he gets momentarily distracted by the bright aqua nail polish she’s wearing. Everything about her is brightness.

“Got it!” she chirps, and then gives a little fist pump. “Oh,” she says, blushing as she looks at her arm as if it’s betrayed her. “I really do that.” 

Oliver is still concerned about their plan, and worried that he’ll fail and everyone on this bus will pay the price, but somehow, she makes him smile. He shakes his head at her. “Show me what to do,” he suggests, giving a pointed glance down at himself, wedged as he is against the fare collecting column and the driver’s seat to get a grip on the wheel. “I can’t make the turn like this.”

Her gaze drifts down his body and she nods. “Right, sure,” she says, and she might be blushing a little, but she launches into an explanation of how to force their recorded loop to broadcast out on the bomber’s frequency. “Remember,” she says, taking back control of the bus as Oliver braces himself against the vertical pole. “Flip it right before the bump.”

The next thirty seconds are tense with anticipation and nerves. Then Felicity is forcing the bus through its turn, visibly straining with the effort, and steering them right into the slight bump. Oliver activates the app she’d indicated, and wishes like hell they could get some sort of secondary confirmation. 

“It’s done,” Oliver says, tilting the phone so she can see the screen. 

Felicity inhales quickly. They lock gazes for a long, intense moment, and then she smiles. “Okay,” she says, reaching for her phone and tucking it into the cup holder beside his. “let’s do this, then.”

Oliver presses his hand to the mic switch embedded in the tactical vest in the center of his chest. “Go, go, go,” he says.

It doesn’t take more than thirty seconds for the bright white passenger transport bus to appear alongside them. Felicity opens the back bus doors again, and Oliver squeezes her shoulder before going to talk to Diggle.

Diggle is in the doorway of the transport bus, holding a thick plank of plywood. “As soon as we make this turn,” Diggle shouts over the wind noise, “we get the passengers off the bus. Then the woman driving, then you. Got it?”

Oliver nods, even though there are a few things wrong with the plan. Because the bus is still a huge bomb, and they can’t just abandon it without making sure it’ll detonate away from everyone else. _Especially_ now that he knows how unstable the steering is -- there’s no telling what would happen if they abandon it at fifty-five miles per hour. He’s got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he tries to come up with options for that.

“Oliver?” Diggle shouts.

When Oliver meets his sergeant’s gaze, he can tell the other man has recognized something’s wrong. “Okay,” Oliver yells back. “We’re ready.”

He steps back up onto the floor of the bus and catches Felicity’s gaze in the overhead mirror. “As soon as we come around this turn, we’re getting everyone off. I just need you to hold it steady a little while longer.”

The phrase _easier said than done_ floats through his mind, but Felicity simply nods her understanding. 

& & &

Felicity doesn’t know Oliver very well. Obviously. They just met a little while ago. 

But there’s something in his expression as he helps the passengers assemble to get off the bus that unnerves her. 

Unfortunately, the bus blows another tire, jolting everyone a little bit, and making her job even harder than it already was. Because the bus is in bad shape now. Her arms are fatigued from keeping enough pressure on the steering wheel to keep it straight, and she’s got the pedal practically to the floor just to keep their speed up.

She can’t even bear to look at the gas gauge anymore, because she can _see_ the needle sinking further and further.

After muscling the bus through yet another 180 degree turn, Felicity focuses on holding it rock steady. Her arms are shaking and she’s sitting ramrod straight in her seat, her stomach brushing the bottom curve of the steering wheel. It’s really hard to hold the bus steady now. _Really_ hard. She doesn’t let herself think it’s impossible, but it’s... improbable, maybe. But she _needs_ to do this, or all the rest of it was for nothing, so she shifts a little, tightening her death grip on the hard plastic of the steering wheel and grits her teeth.

When the first passenger steps off of the bus, crossing a little plywood bridge onto the transport bus, Felicity lets herself feel proud. Because they don’t blow up. Which means the bomber doesn’t know what’s happening. Which _probably_ means her insane video idea apparently worked. 

Or maybe the bomber’s just not paying attention right now. Even psychopathic bombers have to pee sometimes, right?

So, yeah, she’s proud, but she’s also incredibly nervous. She’s worried that the bomber will figure it out, or the helicopters won’t be able to help themselves from broadcasting live video of the passengers being rescued. Or just that the bomber is a murder-y asshole who will get bored and hit the detonator.

Felicity has been understandably anxious since she first saw a news alert about an explosion on a bus, but right now? With rescue so unbearably close? She’s suddenly _shaking_ with it, panicky with the fight-or-flight need to _run away, get away, go, go, go_. 

She forces herself to take big gulps of air, tries to slow her pulse, focuses entirely on holding the bus steady as the passengers get to safety, one by one. She can’t hear the conversations over the sound of wind rushing in through the back doors, but she can hear voices. Fewer and fewer voices. Felicity doesn’t let herself look, doesn’t let herself start to feel like they did it, because she’s _pretty_ sure that’s when disaster will strike. Plus her arms are aching with the effort of holding the bus steady and she thinks if she moves even an inch, the bus will veer one direction or the other.

Suddenly, Oliver is by her side, so unexpectedly that she startles. “Hey,” he says quietly, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Your turn.”

Felicity looks up at him, puzzled. “What?” She blinks, glancing up at the mirror. They’re the only two people left on the bus. Oh. She turns her face back up to him. “What’s the plan?”

He gives her that same look she saw earlier -- determination and something edging close to regret. “I’ll take the wheel.”

And then Felicity gets it, in one blinding flash of angry realization. Her spine goes rigid and she can feel the flush of anger in her cheeks. “And how do _you_ get off the bus?”

He grimaces and rips the comm out of his ear, letting it dangle down his chest, and she wonders if that means his team doesn’t know what he’s suggesting either. “Felicity, we’re out of good options. I need you to be safe. And I need to get the bus as far away from anyone else as possible. Then I’ll figure something out.”

She’s shaking her head at him before he even stops talking. “You need to find another way,” she tells him. Loudly. “Because that’s not a plan, it’s suicide.” They’re rapidly approaching another turn, which is far too difficult to try to take in sync with another vehicle, so she just turns forward and ignores him. The cops in the transport bus will have to peel away in a few moments regardless.

The phone in his pocket rings, but he ignores it, his hand tightening on her shoulder. “Felicity--”

“If you’re not leaving, I’m not leaving,” she interrupts loudly. Because who does he think he is being all self-sacrificing like that? “So you’d better _figure something out_ now that will get us both off of this bus safely.”

There’s a scraping noise from behind them, and a very large man with biceps bigger than Oliver’s leans into the back door. “Queen!” he snaps. Felicity watches the new arrival in the mirror, wishing she knew anything about police badges and ranks. If she had to guess, she’d say this man is probably Oliver’s boss.

Oliver glances back, jaw clenched. “Go,” he orders. “Get the passengers away.”

The man’s eyebrows jump up in an impressively judgmental display, Felicity thinks, even as he looks pointedly at her. “She’s a passenger.”

“Dig, I’m _working_ on it,” Oliver answers sharply.

Felicity gestures ahead of them. “We’re turning in ten seconds,” she calls out. Because she’s pretty sure this Dig person will not want to be standing on a piece of plywood suspended between two buses going fifty-- _shit_ , fifty- _two_ \-- when they try to make a 180 degree turn. Felicity frowns and presses the gas pedal a little harder. It’s basically on the floor now, and the bus is only just maintaining its speed. This is not good.

Diggle makes a very frustrated noise, but disappears, taking the plywood bridge with him. And as Felicity drags the protesting bus into the turn, they lose another tire, and the bus jerks hard right. “Shit, shit, shit!” she chants, hauling the steering wheel around to keep them from swinging wide onto the grass. And probably dying.

Oliver is beside her again, yanking hard on the wheel to keep the bus on pavement as they reach the long runway. Then he’s glancing around, his gaze bouncing from place to place inside the bus. She can practically see him considering and discounting a half-dozen ideas. “Okay,” he says. “Can you keep it straight a little longer?”

Felicity nods, bracing her free leg against the floorboard for more leverage. “Yeah, but I don’t think we can make another turn.”

Oliver pauses beside her, pointing to the far end of the runway. “See those concrete barriers?” She follows his gaze and sees a large wall of reinforced concrete, no doubt intended to keep planes from spilling out onto the roadway beyond. When she nods, he gives her a grim smile. “That’s where we’re going to put the bus.”

Felicity makes a soundless “Oh,” her gaze zeroing in on the barrier. And then she gets it -- the barrier is enough to keep the explosion, or the post-explosion-fireball-on-wheels, from getting near anyone. “Are we--” She clears her throat, tries again, “Are we going to be _on_ the bus when we--”

“No!” Oliver interrupts, crouching beside her, his palm on her knee. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Felicity.”

She nods wordlessly, her thoughts still going a thousand miles an hour. Because they’re just as trapped on this bus now as they were an hour ago, and, yes, it’s awesome that there’s only two of them at risk instead of 22, but she’d still like to survive the day. Her panicky confusion keeps her from really tracking what Oliver’s doing as he pulls things from a couple compartments, and the med kit. 

Then he’s beside her again, holding a long plastic stick -- or what on closer inspection looks like a piece of one of the seats. “What is--?”

“Can you wedge the pedal down?” he asks, his tone brisk and no-nonsense.

“Oh! Yes, I can do that.” But it’s hard, actually -- hard to wedge it in properly, hard to make herself let up on the gas pedal to test whether it’ll work, hard to believe it won’t slip at a really bad moment and then -- BOOM! Her hands are shaking again, one arm straining to keep them straight while the other very, very nervously eases up pressure on the plastic, staring fearfully to see if it’ll slip.

But it appears to be holding. And causing the bus to accelerate, just a little bit. “Oliver?” she asks, “do you have a plan?” When she glances back, he’s unscrewing the access panel he’d used earlier to look at the bomb, and then had been pulled aside to yank him back onto the bus. “Uh...” she says, eyes wide with disbelief.

Because if he thinks she’s going to drop through the bottom of the bus on a little piece of metal and just hope for the best... 

Felicity glances wildly around the inside of the bus and, yeah, there doesn’t seem to be many better options. Or many options _at all_.

“Felicity.”

She turns wide, panicked eyes to him, wordlessly asking for _some_ kind of reassurance.

Oliver pauses his work to hold her gaze. “I need you to trust me,” he says, pulling the access panel free and up onto the floor of the bus. And then he’s moving again, tying a rope around the steering wheel and testing his knots. “Okay,” he directs, bracing himself in the aisle and holding the wheel steady with the rope. “You can let go.”

She stares at him for a moment. Because if she thought she was scared _before_ , she’s _terrified_ of his plan. His plan is _terrible_.

But it’s also apparently slide on an access panel or die in a fiery explosion. So. 

She takes an unsteady breath and looks down, realizing that between the plastic bar wedged between the seat and the pedal and the rope tied to the steering wheel, Oliver has basically trapped her in the driver’s seat. So she needs to extricate herself. And _quickly_.

Bracing herself with a hand on the side window, she climbs rather indelicately around the steering wheel, her heels making her very unsteady when she crouches on the seat. Carefully avoiding the piece of plastic holding the pedal down, she squeezes between the vertical bar and the rope in Oliver’s grasp, landing on shaky legs in the aisle very, very close to him. 

She takes a step, then turns back to fish both phones out of the cup holder. Oliver’s is their only link to the bomber, while hers is running their looped video. She curses them for their stupidity in _not_ sending them both off the bus with the passengers. 

“Now what?” she asks. Her knees are threatening rebellion. 

He glances ahead of them, gauging their distance from the concrete barrier. Felicity follows his gaze -- they’ve got maybe thirty seconds. She feels her pulse spike, her breathing go all wonky, and tells herself to get a grip.

“Hold this,” Oliver instructs, handing her the rope and taking the phones from her, tucking them into two of the many pockets on his tactical vest. The tactical vest that really shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but he looks amazing, and what is _wrong_ with her brain right now.

The rope fibers rip into her palms as she tries to urge the bus a little to the right. Because as soon as they let go, it’s going to curve left. Which means if they’re still underneath the bus, they’ll go right under the back wheels. And... yeah, she’s pretty sure she’s about to hack.

She splits her attention between steering the bus, and Oliver, who loops the end of the rope through the handle of the access panel, then drops it down so the bottom edge scrapes and sparks along the pavement. The sound is ear-piercingly terrible.

Yup, she’s totally going to hack.

Oliver shifts the rope so it’s taut from the steering wheel through the loop on the access panel and into his grip. “I got it,” he tells her. Then he’s shifting onto the panel, easing his body down, and she has _no_ idea how he doesn’t topple onto the pavement, or lose his grip on the rope or _something_. He’s like some kind of magician. He reaches his free hand up to her, and somehow, he’s _not_ shaking with fear, which she finds just absolutely crazy. He’s a _crazy_ magician.

“Felicity.”

She’s _terrified_ , breathing in tight little gasps, but when she glances out the windshield, they’re maybe fifteen seconds from death, so she pauses only to tear off her beloved Mary Janes, then takes his hand and half-steps, half-slides onto the panel beside him.

Her bare feet slip against the slick rubber and she ends up flush against Oliver’s very hard body. His arm bands around her ribs, anchoring her in place, and his mouth is right up against her ear when he says, “Hold onto me tightly.”

Before she can respond, he does _something_ with the rope, and the panel drops with a sickening lurch. It bounces slightly when it hits the pavement, and Felicity yelps, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her leg curling around one of his. 

And then sunlight, blinding sunshine hits, and she realizes they’ve cleared the bus somehow. Reflexively, she closes her eyes, burying her face against him. Her senses are on overload -- the hot sun, the rush of wind against her bare legs, his fingers digging into her hip, the deafening scrape of metal along pavement, the feel of his vest beneath her cheek, the vaguely forest-y scent of him. 

The panel is slowing down quickly, grinding along the pavement until they hit a patch of grass. They lose momentum so quickly that she and Oliver tumble off the panel, landing in a heap with him mostly over her. His hand shifts up her spine to cradle the back of her head gently, holding her still.

Stunned, she counts to six before a massive explosion sounds. A hot blast of air rushes past them, raining dirt and small pebbles down on them. Oliver takes the brunt of it, curled protectively over her, and she hears him hiss in pain. Her arm slips around his back, pulling him closer.

Finally, there’s a moment of stillness. 

Felicity can hear the roar of flames not far off, she can feel the sting of road rash -- or _grass_ rash or whatever you call it when your body scrapes along the ground -- all up her thigh, and she’s sure the cavalry will be here quickly. But she blinks her eyes open and looks up at Oliver, her hands gripping his biceps. 

He’s grinning down at her, a heavy, comfortable weight. His eyes are incredible this close -- bluer than the sky above them.

“Wow,” she says, her voice all strange and thready, “you’re really sweaty.” She frowns, glancing down as her hand slides down to lie flat against his chest. “And heavy. Is that really all muscle?”

& & &

Oliver can feel the sting of a hundred little injuries along his back and legs, the burn of road rash on his upper arm, and the angry protests of his muscles, but he doesn’t give a shit about any of it right now.

Because they lived. Improbably.

They’re still where they tumbled onto the grass once the access panel lurched to a stop -- he’s got his weight on one hip and his elbow, his arms still wrapped pretty firmly around her torso. Felicity is tucked beneath him, her breasts pressed to his chest, her beautiful face smiling up at him, and somehow her glasses survived all of that, and it’s taking just about everything in his power to keep himself from kissing her right now. “Are you okay?” he asks instead.

Her expression crumples and she lets go of him, pressing her palms to her cheeks, hiding her face from him. “No,” she says with a hitch in her voice.

Oliver panics -- how is it possible that _this_ , the sight of Felicity crying, has him more terrified than being stuck on a bus rigged to explode? 

But then he’s never been good with women crying, and she’s held it together so incredibly through extreme circumstances, now that they have a moment, he supposes it makes sense for all of it to hit her. “It’s okay,” Oliver says lamely. He wants to make it better for her, make _her_ feel better, but words have never been his forte. He pulls her even closer in an attempt to comfort her, his hands pressing along her back, against her shoulder. “It’s over. You did it.”

“ _We_ did it,” she says, her voice still a little unsteady. Then she takes a deep breath and swipes her fingers across her cheeks. There are still a couple tear tracks visible through the smudges of dirt on her face. Her eyes are wet, but when she looks up at him, she’s all fiery determination again. She studies him for a moment and he wonders what she can see on his face when she starts to smile. She looks impossibly impish when she asks, “You’re not gonna get all mushy on me, are you?”

Oliver lets out a relieved sigh that morphs into an unexpected chuckle. He can’t help himself from smiling back at her. “Maybe,” he teases. And it’s supposed to be a joke, but it feels more like an admission. 

He can hear sirens approaching, now, and running boots, and he knows he should move, get them up off the ground, but he just can’t make himself let her go just yet. 

And then Diggle and Tommy are looming over them, looking down with some form of relieved exasperation. Something warm and happy blossoms in Oliver’s chest when Felicity makes no move to separate herself from him. She just shifts a little in his embrace, her palm landing on his bicep, and turns just enough so that she can look up at the new arrivals.

“Was that really necessary?” Dig demands, hands on his hips.

“Got the job done,” Tommy points out, grinning cheekily down at them.

“Felicity,” Oliver says, glancing at the woman in his arms, “This is my boss, Sergeant Diggle, and my idiot partner, Tommy Merlyn.” He doesn’t bother to look up, because she’s adorable when she’s squinting into the sun like that. “Dig, Tommy, this is Felicity.”

“Hi,” she says, lifting her hand from his arm to wave awkwardly. She looks back to Oliver and shakes her head a little. “Is there some minimum hotness requirement for the SCPD?” she says quietly, and when he smirks at her, she flushes. “Please tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”

“That was some excellent driving,” Tommy says. “I can see why this one found you so impressive.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Ignore him,” he tells Felicity.

“Oliver,” Dig says, glancing at the ambulance pulling to the edge of the grass. “How about you and Felicity get checked out by the paramedics, and then I just might give you the rest of the day off.”

“I’m fine,” Oliver protests.

“There’s blood on your shirt,” Tommy shoots back.

Oliver’s arms tighten around Felicity for just a moment, and he leans back a little to get a better look. “Felicity, are you--?”

“It’s your back, Oliver,” Tommy interrupts. 

Oh. Right. He can feel the sting when he thinks about it. But that’s really unimportant, because he hasn’t made sure that Felicity is okay. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

She shakes her head, her fingers squeezing his arm comfortingly. “Probably some cuts and bruises, but considering our exit strategy, I--”

The familiar Fall Out Boy song interrupts, and he and Felicity are both sitting upright suddenly. He scrabbles at the pocket of his tactical vest and pulls out his cellphone, cracked screen and all. “It’s him,” he says, looking up at Diggle.

Then he glances almost involuntarily at the bus, which is in flames near the concrete barrier. The fiery crash is surrounded by several firetrucks working to suppress the fire, but it's far enough away that Oliver's pretty sure the noises won't be audible over the phone.

“No sirens,” Oliver orders, then hits ACCEPT and brings the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Tick tock, kid,” the bomber says. “Have your worthless colleagues gathered my money?”

He doesn’t know. 

_Holy shit_. 

Oliver glances at Felicity, who’s watching him with wide eyes. _The bomber doesn’t know the bus blew up_. He presses his free hand to the pocket holding her cellphone and he can tell the moment she understands, because her lips form a soundless “oh!”

“Just about,” Oliver answers, trying badly to keep his voice as bland as possible. “But we need the drop location.”

“Three point seven million, kid,” the bomber repeats his demands. 

“I know,” Oliver says, letting a bit of his irritation bleed through. Tommy nudges his thigh with his boot, but Oliver ignores him. Because, yeah, it _should_ be Tommy doing the negotiation, but it’s not, and Oliver needs to focus.

“You know,” the bomber repeats, his tone both angry and mocking. “Oh, I looked you up, Queen. Trust fund baby hooked on the adrenaline. What could _you_ possibly know, kid?”

“I know you want a shitload of money you didn’t earn,” Oliver snaps back. Tommy kicks him this time, which actually hurts, and Oliver shoves his partner away.

“Oh, I _earned_ it,” the bomber growls. “And so did she, but the department--” He cuts off abruptly, and Oliver swallows a frustrated groan because that’s as close to the reason behind this guy’s issues as they’ve gotten all day. 

He knows he probably shouldn’t, but he repeats, “She?”

“Don’t you talk about her!” the bomber shouts. “Three point seven million dollars. Non-sequential unmarked bills, nothing bigger than a hundred. Two black bags thrown in the trash can on the north side of Bullock Square. You got all that?”

“North side of Bullock,” Oliver repeats. “Got it.”

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” the bomber says. 

The call goes dead, and Oliver rolls to his feet, reaching down for Felicity. He helps her rise, even as he updates Diggle and Tommy. “He doesn’t know the bus blew up. We have to get to Bullock Square. _Now_.”

END CHAPTER


	4. Chapter 4

Apparently, speeding vehicles are kind of the theme for Felicity’s day.

She’s not totally clear on how she ended up in the back of an ambulance with Oliver and a brusque, no-nonsense paramedic as they speed along behind a cluster of cruisers. They’re heading for Bullock Square, for the next step in the police action to try to catch the bomber. But for some reason, Oliver had insisted -- _loudly_ \-- that she needed to be on-site with them. He’d pointedly ignored Tommy’s skepticism, then had overcome Diggle’s protests by announcing that she’d spoken to the bomber, too, and could have useful information.

Diggle had only agreed on the condition that she be questioned. Debriefed. Whatever. But that didn’t seem to be why Oliver wanted her with him.

” _We need her_ ,” he’d said, his tone weirdly urgent. Then he’d locked gazes with her, and she’d realized he didn’t want to be separated from her just yet. Which is fine with her, because she feels exactly the same -- though she knows it’s some mixture of intense bonding over their recent stress and her sudden, stunning crush on the (very attractive) cop who’d managed to save her from a freaking _bomb_. 

Totally crushworthy.

Before she’d been able to work out a theory on what _his_ insistence that they stay together was about, he’d half-helped, half-pushed her into this ambulance. 

They spend the first two minutes of the drive arguing over who should be treated first. _Obviously_ him, since he’d used his body to shield her from the explosion and, as a result is _actively bleeding_. As it turns out, Oliver is at least as stubborn as she is. And she can’t bring herself to refuse his request when he says, “I need to know you’re okay. Please.”

So she relents, and keeps her face turned away from the paramedic’s gloved hands that are doing _something_ painful but necessary to the road rash on her thigh. 

When Felicity had ventured to look at her injury earlier, once she was on her feet and walking through the rough grass to the ambulance, she’d felt decidedly nauseated. There’s a red patch of angry, torn skin along the outside of her left thigh. It’s bigger than her hand, and it hurts when she moves her leg, or even when her dress brushes against it, so having a paramedic probing and cleaning and _touching_ the wound? It stings. A _lot_ , and she hisses as she inhales.

Oliver slips his hand into hers and squeezes. “You okay?” he asks, his tone quiet and intimate, despite the bizarre circumstances of the moment. Of the _day_ , really.

She nods, and then makes the mistake of glancing at her leg. Which is being actively targeted by the paramedic, who’s holding a really scary looking needle. “Nope!” she corrects, whipping her face back around towards Oliver with a grimace. Definitely not okay. She really hates needles. Pointy things in general, but _especially_ needles.

“This is a topical anaesthetic,” the paramedic explains, apparently waiting on all the stabbing until Felicity calms down some. Which probably won’t happen. Because _needles_. “Should help numb the pain while I clean this up and bandage it. When you get home, you should start on NSAIDs.”

“Good. Numb is good,” Felicity grits, but she’s breathing kind of unsteadily, and she feels a little lightheaded. Oliver’s hand is warm in hers, and he rubs his thumb along her skin. It's kind of distracting, but not enough to counter her sudden panic.

Which is stupid -- she didn’t spiral like this when she was driving _a giant bomb_ , so what is _wrong_ with her? She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to calm herself. Because she’s being ridiculous. Worse -- she’s being illogical. And she _hates_ being illogical.

“Felicity?” Oliver murmurs, and when she opens her eyes, he’s _right there_ , like, inches from her face. His eyes are so, so blue, and concerned, and... something else? Something that makes her stomach clench in a totally _different_ way from the needles. 

She freezes, uncertainty flooding her as she tries to figure out what, exactly, Oliver is--

He’s kissing her.

Holy shit, Oliver is _kissing_ her, and she leans into him, and it’s _so_ good. Neither of them escalate it -- he just presses soft, warm, searching kisses to her lips, his free hand coming up to cup her face, his thumb stroking her jawbone. 

His lips are surprisingly soft and she can feel the brush of his stubble against her chin, which means she _didn’t_ pass out and _isn’t_ having some inappropriately erotic fantasy dream about him. 

No, he’s _actually kissing her_. And she sinks into it, her free hand coming up and landing on his bicep, wanting to hold him in place for, like, _ever_.

A throat clearing jerks Felicity out of her lust-induced haze, and she stiffens. Oliver smiles against her lips, then kisses her once, twice more before pulling back a couple inches. When she opens her eyes, he’s grinning at her. “Better?”

 _Better_? She blinks. What? 

But as her brain comes back online, she gets it -- that was a distraction. Kissing her was just to distract her. She glances down at her leg, which dislodges his hold on her chin, and, yup -- she’s all patched up -- a bright white rectangle of gauze covering her injuries. He just kissed her so she wouldn’t pass out from the her embarrassingly acute fear of needles.

Public service at its finest.

She’s stupidly disappointed and tells herself to get a grip. Felicity ignores the fact that Oliver’s hand is still holding hers, his thumb stroking lightly against her skin, like he wants to remind her he’s there.

The paramedic -- Felicity checks her name tag -- Ramirez is watching her with a slightly smug look. “Any other injuries?” she asks, adjusting the stethoscope around her neck.

Felicity shakes her head. “No,” she answers, her voice sounding small and unsure. He’s still really close to her and still holding her hand, and she needs a little space to get herself under control. “I’m fine,” she says.

“Felicity?” Oliver shifts beside her. “Was that not okay?”

“No, no, it was okay,” she answers, feeling heat in her cheeks. “I mean, not _just_ okay, that’s not what I-- It was _very_ okay.” She presses her lips together to try to stop the words from tumbling out. “I just think...”

Oliver’s fingers tighten on hers, but he doesn’t speak.

Felicity glances at Ramirez, who’s momentarily distracted digging through medical supplies, and then steals a quick glance at Oliver. He’s watching her closely, his expression closed off.

“I just think,” she repeats quietly, “today has been... _intense_... and starting something based on--”

“Okay,” Oliver interrupts, his fingers going slack in her grip.

Despite what she’s saying to him, she can’t bear to let his hand go. “Relationships that start under intense circumstances never last,” she says. Then winces. “Not that you were trying to start a _relationship_ with me. I mean, it was just a kiss.” She closes her eyes, her face burning with embarrassment now. “Not _just_ a kiss.”

“A very okay kiss?” he murmurs, leaning so close that she can feel his breath against her ear and she shivers.

Before she can try to respond to _that_ , there’s a loud snapping noise. Felicity jerks her gaze to Ramirez, who’s just pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.

The paramedic moves to crouch in front of Oliver. “Your back, right?” she asks. “Can you take your shirt off for me?”

Felicity stiffens, because -- _really_? Is this ambulance ride supposed to be some form of torture? The hot guy she’s wildly attracted to kissed her (just as a favor, but still), and then takes his shirt off for another woman?

Sure, the other woman is a paramedic and he’s seeking medical attention. _But still_.

“Felicity,” Oliver says again, and the uncertainty in his tone catches her attention. His brow is furrowed when she turns her head to face him. 

“I’m good,” she says, and makes herself mean it. “Really.” She squeezes his hand once, then gently disengages from his hold. “Please let her fix you up.”

He stares at her for a long, loaded moment, then nods. “Okay.” 

And then she simultaneously hates and loves every single thing she’s done today that put her in this ambulance, because Oliver peels his shirt off, and holy _crap_ , he is ridiculous. His muscles shift and flex as he moves, and the biceps she was so gaga over earlier are, it turns out, _nothing_ compared to the chiseled craziness of his torso.

And his _abs_.

Like... he should be in one of those soft focus, black-and-white, “artsy” posters of hot, mostly naked guys holding puppies or kittens that are plastered all over women’s dorm rooms. He’s _that_ hot. 

She rubs a hand against her lips, just to be sure she’s not _actually_ drooling.

He shifts, turning so his back is to Ramirez, and leans a little forward, his hands clamped on the edge of the stretcher. Felicity can’t see much of his back from her spot beside him, so she doesn’t know how bad or plentiful the cuts and bruises are along his back. Plus he’s stoic -- he doesn’t wince or make a sound as the paramedic works on him. The only sign that he might be in pain is the way his knuckles whiten, and it takes Felicity an embarrassingly long time to notice.

When she does, she scoots closer and places her hand over his, slotting her fingers between his to try to provide some measure of the comfort he gave her. She has the sudden urge to lean into him and press a kiss to his shoulder, but manages to tamp _that_ insanity down.

Oliver keeps his chin down for a long moment, and she has the distinct impression that he’s looking at her hand intertwined with his. Reflexively, she follows his gaze -- her hand is tiny and pale atop his, but something in the way their fingers tangle together is soothing. Her grip on him tightens just a bit.

Then he turns his head and locks gazes with her, and maybe she was wrong, before, when she thought he was just being comforting. “Felicity, I know you said--” They both look up when the ambulance comes to a rather abrupt stop. “Wait, are we here?”

“Bullock Square,” Ramirez confirms. “But I’m not done with you.”

“I’m fine,” Oliver answers, and it’s amazing how quickly he shifts back into work mode. His hand slips from hers as he reaches for his dirty, pockmarked t-shirt and tugs it back on. He gives Felicity a quick, inscrutable look and says, “Stay here, okay? I’m gonna go check in with Diggle. I’ll come get you when it’s over.”

Before she can formulate a response, he’s got his tactical vest in his hand and the doors of the ambulance open wide. He doesn’t even look back before hops down and disappears.

“Okay,” she answers belatedly.

& & &

Shrugging into his tactical vest, Oliver jogs to the unmarked SUVs parked half a block up the street, catching up with Tommy as they stream into an office building overlooking Bullock Square. “We good?” he asks, piling into the elevator with entirely too many fellow cops.

“Harper’s gonna make the drop once we’ve got eyes on,” Diggle explains. He pauses, pulling a holstered semiautomatic out of the small duffel he’s carrying. Dig meets Oliver’s curious gaze and offers him the gun. “Harper picked up your bike earlier,” he explains. “It’s at the station. Brought this along for you -- figured you wouldn’t want to be unarmed in this scenario.”

Oliver’s relieved to be armed -- and that his service weapon stayed safely locked beneath the seat of his bike. He’ll have to thank Harper later. “Thanks,” he tells Dig.

Dig jerks a nod and continues the briefing. “We’ve got snipers in place, and we’re trying to clear the square.”

“Won’t that tip the guy off?” Tommy wonders. 

“He doesn’t have any leverage right now,” Dig answers with a careless shrug, “so we’re prioritizing citizen safety.”

Oliver considers this for a moment, until the elevator jerks and shimmies to a halt. There’s a sudden tension in the air, as they all pause to see what happens next. Because some kind of mechanical failure trapping them in the elevator would just be the icing on this day.

But after a long, tense moment, the doors simply slide open. There’s more than one relieved sigh as the SWAT team members pour out into the hallway.

“This way,” Dig says, leading them to the building management office. There are already uniforms inside keeping a half-dozen nervous employees well back and away from the bank of windows overlooking Bullock Square. Dig pauses. “Thanks for letting us use your space,” he says. “Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

And then Oliver’s squadmates are spreading out along the windows, squeezing between desks to get a good vantage point of the drop. Oliver knows there are plainclothes cops in the Square, and uniforms at the ready in various buildings surrounding the drop spot. 

“Channel five,” Ramon announces, from his spot manning a couple laptops against the far wall. “Keep it clear unless you’ve got something important to say.” He’s the best tech support guy on the force, as long as he’s got an improbably large Slurpee on hand, and Oliver’s relieved to see the over-sized green cup sitting just beside Ramon’s hand. There’s a tracer in with the money, and he’ll keep a focused eye on the position, just to make sure the bomber won’t take two steps without the SWAT team knowing. 

Pressing his comm into his ear, Oliver ends up at desk with a nameplate that reads Chinwe Lotanna. He carefully moves Lotanna’s laptop further from the window, wedging himself closer to the glass so that he can see as much of the square as possible. It’s a small park, taking up half a city block and more rectangular than square. There are people cutting through the park’s winding brick pathways, or sitting on the few benches, and Oliver scans each one, wishing he had some idea what the bomber looks like.

The chatter over the comm shifts in tone, from casual updates to clipped orders, and Oliver immediately refocuses. Harper’s on his way, and Oliver searches the square trying to spot him.

There. Red hoodie.

Oliver rolls his eyes. This kid and his fucking red hoodie.

But to Harper’s credit, he _does_ look more like a street urchin than a cop as he slinks along the sidewalk, a duffel bag slung over each shoulder. Oliver has already identified the garbage can the bomber indicated for the drop -- it’s one of those big belly solar compacting cans, which seems like a really poor choice.

“Don’t see anything,” Harper murmurs as he approaches the trash can. He tugs the chute open and muscles the first bag inside. Even from his perch four stories up and across the street, Oliver can tell it’s a struggle. 

What is the bomber playing at? He glances over at Tommy, who turns to meet his gaze. “That’s a shitty drop spot,” Tommy says slowly, like he’s running through options while talking, and paying more attention to the mental calculations than Oliver. “We’re missing something.”

It’s exactly what Oliver’s thinking, and he tenses, half-expecting the garbage can to explode. But Harper is shoving the second bag in, closing the chute, and then opening to confirm the bag has dropped inside. 

“Done,” Harper says. 

Oliver exhales sharply -- he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. He watches Harper continue along his path, like he’s just a guy out for a walk, pausing to shove two full duffel bags in the trash like any other pedestrian. As dead drops go, the bomber’s choice isn’t exactly subtle, and Oliver chews on that detail a little as he scans for movement, for anyone approaching the trash can. For _something_. 

Fuck, Oliver _hates_ waiting. 

Then his vest is buzzing, and he frowns, glancing down. His phone? He tugs the pocket open, but it’s Felicity’s brightly covered phone vibrating, not his.

“Fuck,” he mutters, because she was right -- he doesn’t remember her password at all. But when he lifts the phone out, it turns out he doesn’t need to unlock. She must’ve done something... high tech to it, because the phone is still locked, but it’s displaying a twitter -- a twit? a chirp? -- whatever. And he groans when he reads it:

_Safely off the #SCbombbus. Bus wasn’t so lucky!_

It’s from someone with the username Deadshot, like some obsessed Call of Duty enthusiast. Just below the text is a thumbnail of a picture. When Oliver touches the preview, the full-sized picture pops up. He recognizes the skinny passenger who’d come at him with a knife, looking into the camera with his eyebrows raised, the flaming bus far off in the background.

“Fuck!” Oliver shouts. Because it’s over, now -- the bomber knows already, or will know soon enough, that the bus blew. He’s got no leverage, and if knows that, he’ll know the dead drop is an elaborate trap.

Tommy turns to him and asks, “What?” but before Oliver can respond, there’s another loud curse from the far side of the office.

“Guys, we have a problem.” Ramon, who’s at the makeshift monitoring station, turns to the rest of them. 

Diggle gives Oliver a look, but asks Ramon to clarify first.

Ramon holds up his tablet, which shows an aerial rendering of Bullock Square with two blinking dots marking the duffel bags’ positions. “The money’s moving.”

As the rest of the SWAT team turns to the windows, trying to see what’s happening, Oliver is already heading for the door. “Tommy!” He tosses Felicity’s phone in his partner’s general direction and takes off running.

& & &

Felicity sits in the ambulance, impatient and unable to see what’s going on. The situation is working her last nerve.

She is a fan of information, and sitting here in what amounts to a full information blackout is _not_ working for her. At all. She doesn’t even have her _phone_ \-- it’s still in Oliver’s vest pocket.

With a glance at Ramirez, Felicity considers asking to borrow her phone. Just to check in. Get her technology fix. One quick hit of the internet. 

Damn, she might have a problem.

“A word of advice?” the paramedic says, interrupting her thoughts.

“Huh?” Felicity asks, eloquent as always.

“Cops are bad choices for romantic partners,” Ramirez says. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, and seems maybe a little uncertain about bringing this up. 

“Oh!” Felicity’s eyes widen. “Yeah, no. We just met today. On the bus. You know--” She makes a strange hand gesture that’s meant to mimic an explosion-- “So that was-- That was just...” She lets her defensive sentence trail off, because the truth is, she doesn’t actually have any idea what that was. Other than a freaking amazing kiss. _That_ she knows. It’s the intentions _behind_ said amazing kiss that are still a mystery to her.

God, she _hates_ mysteries.

“Just be careful,” Ramirez says, and for the first time, Felicity can see a glimmer of jaded experience under her kind but no-nonsense exterior. 

“Thanks,” Felicity says. And she means it. Because she really _does_ need to throttle back on all of this... _stuff_ she keeps thinking about Oliver. He’s just a nice guy who was thrown into a situation with her, and she really needs to stop fixating on him like some kind of lovesick dork. Like -- imagining candlelit dinners, and wondering how he’d look on her couch all sleepy and comfortable and a little disheveled, and, _seriously_ , what is even wrong with her brain right now? 

Maybe she’s concussed? Though, that’s a thing the paramedics would probably have noticed, right?

“Sit tight,” Ramirez says, then climbs out the open back door and rounds the side of the ambulance. Moments later, she climbs into the front seat alongside her partner, and the two start talking Felicity listens in for a few moments, just in case they have actual information about _what’s going on_ , but, nope, they’re arguing over who has to fill out the paperwork on her and Oliver. 

Which leaves Felicity alone with her thoughts. And no internet. _Always_ a dangerous combination.

So of course the cumulative effect of her _insane_ day of stress and trauma comes back and hit her full force as she sits there with _absolutely nothing_ to distract her. Her leg jiggles up and down, and she twists her hands together, stretching her fingers that are still a little sore from gripping the bus steering wheel so hard. She needs something to do, someone to talk to, or she’s going to melt into a puddle of stress. 

Or cry. And she _hates_ crying. Crying makes her mad at herself. And then anger makes her cry _harder_. It’s the _worst_.

But more than staving off some sort of tearful breakdown, she needs to know _what’s going on_. Because, yeah, Oliver’s a cop and he should be off doing... cop-things to catch the bad guy, but she spent the past couple hours being terrified by the bomber, so she has a vested interest in the outcome. And she has a vested interest in Oliver’s well-being that she doesn’t want to examine very closely.

She has a strong, strangely unwavering faith in Oliver. She just... would prefer to be kept in the loop instead of tucked safely in the back of an ambulance down the street. The not-knowing is slowly killing her, she’s sure of it.

Felicity can’t have made it more than five minutes before she slides down the stretcher towards the open door and says, probably too quietly for the paramedics up front to hear her, “I’m just gonna...” 

She uses the door to steady herself as she hops down onto the pavement, wincing at the pebbles biting into the soles of her feet.

“I loved those shoes,” she murmurs wistfully. Her black and silver Mary Janes were surprisingly comfortable considering their height; they were her go-to for outfits that required heels, which makes them really difficult to replace as part of her wardrobe.

More urgently, she needs to replace them with _some_ kind of shoes, since wandering downtown Starling City barefoot is just asking for bruises or cuts or tetanus. Unfortunately, her wallet is in her favorite handbag -- or _was_. Because both of those items are now strewn across the airfield in tiny, burnt up little bits.

“Stupid asshole,” she mutters darkly, wishing terrible things on the bomber. “I want to staple things to his face.”

She has been avoiding the cold, hard truth, but thanks to Mr. Asshole Bomber, her beloved tablet is a goner, too. The tablet that she bought the day of its release, and worked feverishly to customize to her very precise needs and standards. That tablet that holds most of the important details of her life in its well-protected digital hands. Good thing she created her own, highly encrypted cloud storage to back everything up.

But _still_. “Poor Jarvis.”

And now, she’s basically stranded downtown, with no shoes, no technology, and no money to correct either problem. She’s pretty sure the police can help her get back into her apartment, at the very least. Once she’s sure that the bomber’s been caught, anyway, because she’s not about to leave without making sure Oliver’s safe. _Then_ she’ll start the super-fun process of calling her bank, her credit card institutions, the DMV. Ugh. The DMV.

“ _Big_ asshole,” she mutters, “making me stand in line at the stupid DMV.”

Felicity brushes those concerns aside and steps up onto the sidewalk, which is slightly less painful on her bare feet. Still, she keeps her gaze pretty squarely on the cement as she makes her way down the block towards where Oliver disappeared.

She can see a police barricade ten feet back from the corner, keeping people out of Bullock Square, and starts determinedly towards it. That must be where Oliver and his team went. As far as she knows, they’re just observing the money drop, waiting for the bomber to show up to collect so they can arrest him. Seems strange they’d have the barricade out there in plain view -- aren’t they worried about scaring the asshole off? Not that Felicity is exactly up on police protocols.

She’s still a quarter of the city block away from the barricade when an officer in a crisp dark uniform appears, seemingly out of nowhere. “Miss,” he says, “you need to come with me.”

Felicity glances at his name tag reflexively. Wilson. Badge number 52043. “I’m just looking for someone.”

“Yes, I know,” Officer Wilson says, and now that she’s looking him in the eye -- well, okay, she’s more looking _herself_ in the eye thanks to his mirrored sunglasses -- she notices what appear to be burn marks along his cheek and down onto his neck and wonders if he was injured on the job. Wonders if he used to be SWAT, like Oliver. Then she realizes she’s staring and snaps her gaze back to his opaque sunglasses. “Queen asked me to find you and bring you to him,” Wilson tells her, and she wonders if his slightly strange pronunciation is related to his injuries.

“Oh.” Felicity nods, feeling embarrassingly eager to be back in Oliver’s company. She can feel her cheeks flush, and curses her penchant to blush. This poor cop doesn’t need to know she’s got a massive crush on his colleague.

She gives a little shake of her head to clear her thoughts and turns away from Wilson. But when she takes a step towards the barricade, he touches her shoulder. “He’s this way, miss,” he corrects, gesturing across the street to a squat office building overlooking Bullock Square.

Felicity balks. “Why would--?”

“Command set up in there,” Officer Wilson interrupts, pointing to the upper floors. “Aerial view of the square.”

She hesitates, just for a moment, and then nods. “Okay. Thanks.” Because, yeah, that makes sense. Still, something about her brief interaction with this officer is tripping some sort of concern wiring in her brain. She just can’t quite put her finger on why. But her compulsion to get to Oliver outweighs any vague, unfounded sense of unease.

Taking a steadying breath, she follows him across the street when there’s a break in traffic. Wilson heads away from the Square, then ducks into a small alleyway between two buildings. She starts to slow down. Something feels a little _off_ in the situation -- like, is it wise to follow a cop into an alleyway? Because, yeah, _cop_ , but also -- weird, abandoned alley? 

Before she can decide what the appropriate reaction is, he reaches a service entry and pulls the metal door open.

The service entry that she hadn’t seen. The cops must be using an entrance that’s not visible from the square to conceal their presence, which -- of _course_ makes a lot of sense. Felicity exhales a little unsteadily, feeling some of the tension ease out of her shoulders, which are practically up around her ears at this point.

God, she’s going to need a _week_ at a spa after today.

“Miss?” Officer Wilson stands there, holding the door open, and she steps forward, her attention shifting to the hallway inside.

It’s an unremarkable hallway, lit by fluorescent ceiling lights and lined with closed doors. The floors and walls have occasional scuff marks, and there are a couple small pallets with boxes stacked haphazardly at the far end. Where, presumably, there’s a service elevator.

She makes it a few feet down the hallway before she begins to get a little freaked out by the unnatural quiet of her footsteps. She’s used to her heels clicking against the floor when she walks, but her bare feet barely make a sound. The strange hush adds to her growing unease, and -- it’s then that she registers the absence of the officer’s heavy, booted footsteps behind her. 

Her breath freezes in her lungs, and she starts to shake from a hit of adrenaline. Because she doesn’t know how or why, but she _knows_ she’s in trouble. “Officer--”

A metallic click interrupts her.

“Think very carefully,” says Wilson, except now his Australian accent is chillingly familiar, “about your next move, blondie.”

Felicity’s hands fly into the air and she swallows. “Oh, frak.”

& & &

Oliver races down three flights of stairs and bursts out into the sun, squinting as he pauses to locate the trash can. He scans the surroundings, but nothing stands out. There are pedestrians cutting through the park, people sitting on park benches. Traffic is flowing normally.

But something is _wrong_ \-- he knows it.

He doesn’t give a thought to traffic, to his own safety, just sprints across the street. He ignores the screeching tires, reflexively half-hopping, half-sliding over the corner of an Audi’s hood as it jerks to a halt.

Oliver doesn’t even slow down.

When he reaches the trash can, he stops for a beat, looking around wildly for any hint, any clue.

Still nothing out of the ordinary. Though now a good portion of the pedestrians in the vicinity are watching him with various expressions of surprise and wariness.

Oliver yanks the chute open and peers inside, wrinkling his nose at the vague odor wafting out, but there’s no way to see what’s in the belly of the trash can. It’s one of those newfangled solar compacting bins, and now that he’s staring into the opening, Oliver realizes the chute doesn’t release trash into the belly of the trash can until it’s pushed closed.

Which means there’s no way to retrieve anything once it’s been trashed.

So why the fuck would the bomber pick this for the dead drop?

Panic and anger hit at about the same time, riding a surge of adrenaline. They fucked up. There’s a tracer in the bag, yeah, but the bomber’s smart, he’s been ahead of them all day, or at least on pace with each of their moves, like he knows--

Oliver stills. 

Fuck. 

_Fuck_.

The bomber’s a cop. He knows every step _because he’s a cop_. How did they not _see_ that?

When Oliver slams the chute shut in frustration, the whole trash can skitters a couple inches along the sidewalk. Way too easily. Like it’s empty.

His adrenaline spikes, and he shoves the bin over onto its side, revealing matching holes in the bottom of the trash can and the cement below. From the sunlight filtering through, Oliver can see a random collection of trash lying forgotten on the tile floor just visible through the hole in the sidewalk. 

_Tile floor_.

He drops to his knees, dipping down close to the pavement to see better, but the angle is terrible. All he can tell is that there’s a finished room beneath the square, and this fucking prick just sauntered right up to the money and went on his merry way.

“Fuck,” Oliver grits out. He hits the mic button on his chest. “He’s underground somehow. Is there a basement or a sub-level?” Another realization. “Shit -- does the subway line run through here? Bullock Square is a stop, right?”

There’s assorted grumbling and crosstalk over the comms, but Oliver is not about to wait around for confirmation -- or, worse, _stand down_ orders -- while the bomber makes his getaway with nearly $4 million. Oliver looks across the small park and spots the subway station sign. Bullock Square, part of the green line. The bomber is smart, and he’s got a -- Oliver checks his watch -- three minute head start. He _will_ slip away if Oliver doesn’t move. _Right now_.

“Son of a bitch.”

He glances over at the office building they’re using and sees that his fellow SWAT members are only just now hitting the street, streaming out of the building and heading in his direction. He’s too impatient to wait, so he shifts to sit along the edge of the hole, dangling his feet. He pauses just long enough to be sure he’s not dropping into an ambush, then shifts, catching himself with his hands along the ragged edges. His palms get scraped up, and the cuts and bruises all up and down his back twinge and ache, but he barely notices.

He’s still a good six feet above the floor. There’s nothing for it but to let himself fall, landing with a deep squat. The impact still jars his joints, particularly the knee with the old injury.

But Oliver ignores all that, glancing around to get his bearings. It’s a janitorial closet, smelling of industrial solvent and dampness. There’s only one door, and it’s pulled closed. 

Oliver has no idea what’s behind it, so he unholsters his weapon, holding it beside his thigh as he steps past the door and reaches for the doorknob. He should wait for backup. He knows this. But the bomber is way too smart to linger near the hole just to try to kill anyone coming after him when he’s got a perfect exit strategy in the form of a freaking subway train. Caution -- _waiting_ \-- is the safe play, but it’s the wrong play. Oliver knows in his gut that they’re way too close to losing this asshole, and that is unacceptable. 

So he eases the door open, wedging the toe of his boot into the opening and bringing the gun up. 

And he waits a beat. 

He doesn’t hear the rustling of any clothing or soft footfalls. He doesn’t see anything to suggest the bomber is lurking on the other side of the wall with a shotgun aimed at the door, so he takes a breath and moves.

Leading with his Glock, held rock steady in both hands, Oliver steps out into an empty hallway, lit by one protesting, flickering fluorescent light. He can hear the low murmur of a crowd somewhere nearby, but nothing closer. If he had to guess, he’d say it’s somewhere in the maintenance section of the Bullock Square subway station. And given the crowd noise, he’s probably not far from the platform.

Which is a frustratingly smart getaway plan.

Oliver speeds up, moving as quickly as he can while still being as quiet as possible. He steps carefully, crouching to peek around a corner lower than anyone would be expecting, but there’s still no one there.

But the other end of the hallway is dark, the light bulbs removed or unscrewed. Oliver’s pulse speeds up. 

He’s right. The bomber is here. Or was here.

Carefully, he hugs the wall, gun held at the ready, and moves towards the darkness. 

As he gets closer, he can see what he assumed was another hallway branching off to the left is actually the entrance to a stairwell. He speeds up, keeping his footfalls as light as possible, and when he reaches the corner, he flattens himself against the wall and slides down to a crouch.

Bracing the fingertips of his left hand on the cool tile floor, he leans to peer around the corner. The rough fabric of his tactical vest makes just enough noise to make him freeze for a long moment.

Nothing. 

Oliver lets out a slow, steady breath, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.

Movement.

He sees it, and can hear the soft sounds accompanying it.

There’s someone on the landing of the stairwell, moving slowly and somehow awkwardly. It’s dark enough to conceal details, but he knows from the shape and size that it’s a person. Maybe a little short. Bulky. 

And holding a large bag in one hand.

Oliver pulls back and stands, tapping his mic three quick times to alert his team. He activates the mic so they’ll be able to hear what’s going on. 

Then he moves -- flicking the safety off, bringing his trigger finger to rest along the trigger guard, stepping out into view with his gun trained on the figure.

“SCPD. Freeze!”

& & &

Ten minutes in the company of Wilson -- assuming that’s even his name -- and Felicity is still pretty solid on the whole wanting-to-staple-things-to-his-face thing. In fact, she’s moved along to wanting to hammer nails into his face.

 _Hard_.

She wants badly to snark at him, to give him her best Buffy-esque pithy retorts, but her upper-level brain functions are all fuzzy and faded, and it’s his fault. He’s got a _gun_ pointed at her, here in her actual real life. She’s terrified, yes, but she’s also _furious_. Because how _dare_ he? The bomb on the bus wasn’t enough? He had to kidnap her, too?

He pushes the muzzle of the gun hard against her spine, pushing her through the only open door she’s seen so far. She stumbles a little, then rights herself. Glancing around, she notes there are no windows, and no doors other than the one he’d just forced her through. There’s a large, low sink along one wall, shelves full of cleaning products and two rolling mop buckets with their mops propped inside. Janitor’s closet. Okay. 

They’re in the sub-basement of this building, and Crazy Bomber Guy wants her to, what -- mop floors? “What are we--?”

But he slams the door behind them, and Felicity startles, turning back to face him. “Don’t move,” Wilson orders, his attention much more focused on the middle of the room, where a smattering of crinkled up fast food bags, empty Starbucks cups, plastic dog poop bags, and, incongruously, two black duffel bags sit. 

When Felicity glances back at him, she’s taken aback. Because he’s removed his sunglasses, revealing an eye patch that had been cleverly hidden. And he’s _smiling_ at the mess in the middle of the floor. The dark glee on his face is...

Well, if she thought she was scared before, she doesn’t even have words for the unfettered _panic_ galloping through her limbs right now. Her brain is firing off a hundred impossible ideas to escape, her every instinct screaming at her to RUN RUN RUN.

“Not so fast, blondie,” Wilson says, turning that chilling smile her way. “You and I are gonna travel a little farther together.”

Felicity doesn’t realize she’s backing away from him until her calf hits one of the mop buckets, nearly sending her toppling over. She catches herself with one hand on the low sink, glancing around, desperate for some kind of weapon.

Not that she’s at all competent at self-defense, particularly when the crazy, one-eyed bomber guy has got a big, shiny _gun_ pointed at her.

Her free hand wraps around the mop handle anyway.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Wilson says. And then he actually _tsks_ her, gesturing with his gun that she move away from the mop buckets. It takes a concerted effort to make her fingers release the wooden handle, but she does, scrambling sideways so her back is against the big sink. The ceramic lip is chilly against the backs of her thighs, even through her skirt, but she wraps her hands around the edge to help ground herself.

Wilson nods his approval, then pulls something out of his pocket. “Phase two,” he announces.

At first glance, she thinks he’s holding a small cellphone. An old one -- a flip phone. Then he flips a switch with his thumb, and a small green light appears. When he turns his hand so she can see, his grin is even more unsettling. It’s a small, black rectangle, with just one protected button covered by some sort of clear plastic casing -- a trigger, she realizes; the switch is a trigger with a safety. 

And she gets it -- he’s holding a detonator. She can’t stop staring at it, her inquisitive mind trying to understand how it works. Just in case she has any sort of opportunity to get closer to him, to -- _do something_ about this. Because if he’s got a detonator, that means he’s got explosives planted somewhere else. 

She thinks, crazily, _What would Oliver do?_ and decides then and there that, yes, she’s scared out of her mind, but Wilson is putting _more_ people at risk, and if she can do anything to keep them safe, well... it’s probably worth it to try to stop him. Even if it costs her... well, a lot. Or everything. 

Felicity lifts her chin and turns her gaze to Wilson. Her bravado wavers a bit, though, because the left side of his mouth is quirked upwards in a smug smile. “Ever heard of a deadman’s switch?” 

Reflexively, she reevaluates the hard plastic detonator in his hand and -- there’s a shiny metal bar pressed flushed against one side. Held there by Wilson’s fingers. And if he lets go of the detonator, something blows up.

Felicity’s suddenly really, _really_ she’s going to vomit. She eyes the mop bucket. Just in case.

Her knees are shaky and threatening to give out, but she can’t stop herself from trying to figure the rest of his plan out. What did he wire to explode this time? Another bus? “No,” she says, her voice shaky. She’s not sure if she’s answering his question or protesting just... _everything_ about this. About him.

“This,” Wilson says, moving the detonator around to be sure she’s looking right at it, “means that you are going to do exactly what I tell you,” he says, and she bristles -- because the _gun_ had already pretty much assured that. “Let’s start with you putting that vest on.”

Vest? 

Felicity’s gaze shifts to where he’s pointing -- the shelving unit on the wall perpendicular to where she’s leaning against the sink. She scans the gallon jugs of pink and green cleaning products, then freezes. On the bottom shelf, leaning against an economy pack of cheap paper towels, is a black lump. It doesn’t look like a vest, but it _is_ apparently some sort of synthetic fabric. Even from afar, she can tell there’s too much _heft_ , too much _bulk_ for it to be _just_ a vest. Which means-- 

“It’s a bomb,” she whispers around the sudden, sour taste in her mouth. 

The explosion at the airfield replays in her mind, that heavy boom that she could feel in her sternum, the sickeningly hot rush of air and debris, the obscene orange tongues of flame reaching into the sky. She can hear her pulse pounding in her ears, and it’s mostly her grip on the sink that’s keeping her upright at this point.

 _She’s_ the bomb. He’s making her into a walking, breathing bomb.

“Put it on.” Wilson sounds less amused and more impatient, and when she glances over, he’s standing above the two duffel bags, prodding them with one booted foot. He snaps his gaze in her direction. “Now.”

She stares a second longer, noticing the gun is now shoved in his waistband. Not that it matters -- he’s got two ways to kill her now. Bullets or bombs. 

Numb, she walks stiffly over to the shelves, scanning quickly for acid or bleach or _something_ she can throw at him, some way to distract him so she can get away. Except that she’s standing a foot away from a bomb, and if he lets go of the detonator, she’ll die. 

Shuddering, she eyes the bundle of black explosive-laden material. Her hands are shaking so badly when she reaches for it that she’s scared she’ll drop it. Will that set it off? Dynamite is unstable, isn’t it? She remembers that episode of _Lost_.

Do bombers use dynamite anymore? She _thinks_ Oliver said something about C4 when he was examining the bomb on the bus. Of course, she has _no_ if C4 is any more stable than dynamite; she took a couple electrical engineering courses at MIT, but none of them delved into bomb-making.

Felicity gently, gently lifts the vest. It’s heavy in her hands, dangling sideways until she reorients it. Now she can see the series of tall, narrow pockets circling the waist. Her mouth is dry, but she forces herself to try to stay calm. If there’s circuitry in the vest, maybe she can -- _carefully_ \-- try to defuse the bomb that way.

When one of the front flaps opens a little, she can see the wiring tacked down to the inside of the vest. The wires lead to a small, flat metal casing in the middle of the back. A small green light blinks ominously.

She swallows a sob. 

Because once she puts this thing on, she’ll have no access to the panel. No access to her one, actually not-that-great shot at outsmarting Wilson.

She’ll be trapped basically _inside_ a bomb.

“Tick, tock, blondie.”

Startled, Felicity shrieks a little when her grasp on the vest falters. Her fingers twist into the straps, making extra sure not to drop it. Just in case. Turning back to Wilson, she gives him a helpless look. “I don’t want to.”

He’s got the gun in his free hand and aimed at her forehead before she can blink. “Make a decision. You can die right now, or you can put that vest on and maybe you’ll live through the day.”

Felicity doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe -- terrified of provoking him. All the taunting, all the condescension she’s seen in his face since he kidnapped her is gone, replaced with cold, dark rage. And she knows with gut-clenching certainty that he _will_ shoot her right now if she refuses his order. Somehow, she manages a jerky nod, bringing the vest closer to her chest with shaking hands. 

Wilson keeps the gun trained on her as she struggles into the vest. It’s easily fifteen, maybe twenty pounds, and the straps dig into her shoulders with a strange, painful pressure. None of which is helping with the shaky, unsteady knees situation.

When she looks up at him, he gestures towards her torso with the gun. “Zip it.”

She feels kind of detached from everything as she obeys, zipping herself into a freaking _suicide bomber_ vest. Where do you even _get_ one of these? How is the FBI not tracing purchases of _suicide vests_? Shouldn’t shopping at suicidebomber.com have put some sort of flag in Wilson’s file?

Her indignation is not helping, so she closes her eyes and takes a deep, calming breath. The effects are minimal, but she doesn’t have time to try again, because Wilson suddenly has hold of her arm and yanks her over to the pile of trash and duffel bags. 

She stumbles. “What--?”

“Open these bags,” he orders, stepping back. The gun is back in his waistband, and he holds the deadman’s switch up, wiggling his arm to draw her attention to it. As threats go, it should be less terrifying than the gun, considering he’s standing five feet from her, and therefore well within the blast radius if he _were_ to detonate the bomb. 

Logic, however, cannot hope to compete with the primal, survival-focused part of her brain that is effectively screaming _BOMB THERE’S A BOMB ON ME GET IT OFF_. She is barely keeping a grip on her roiling emotions. And her roiling stomach.

Carefully, she kneels, the tile floor cool and gritty against her knees. With shaky hands, she unzips the closest bag and pulls it wide open. It’s -- it’s _full_ of money. Stacks of bills neatly bound with little paper loops, just like in the movies. She stares, mouth agape.

“No dye,” Wilson mutters. “Check the other.”

Numbly, she pushes the first bag away, then pulls the second closer, repeating the action. It occurs to her when nothing happens that he’d been expecting her to get a faceful of dye. She wonders why there isn’t any dye in the bags. There’s _always_ dye in the cop shows.

Wilson’s laugh sends a shiver down her spine. “Now find the tracker,” he orders. “Hurry.”

“Tracker?” she asks, confused. Because she saw an RFID tag peeking out from one of the bands around the stacks of bills, but those are passive tracking tags. They don’t broadcast, and wouldn’t do anything to help the cops find the money. Or the bomber.

“The cops put dye or a tracker or both in ransom money. Find it.” Wilson’s tone hardens. “You have sixty seconds.”

Felicity paws through the first bag, opting for speed over finesse. She winces as she gives herself paper cuts running her fingers along the packs of bills. Her breathing is off, too fast and shallow, and she can feel the panic setting in. She’s trembling when she finally finds a small plastic button-shaped object near the bottom. She pulls it out and shows it to him. 

Wilson nods, brusquely. “The other.”

Swallowing down her reaction, which is some strange mixture of irritation and blistering fear, Felicity pulls the other bag to her side and digs through it. She finds the second tracker more easily, and leaves it on the floor with the first one. 

Wilson circles the detritus on the floor, grabbing one duffel bag and loops it over his shoulder. He points to the other bag. “That’s yours to carry. Now.”

Felicity pushes to her feet and lifts the bag. It’s incredibly heavy, and she knows it’ll strain her arm to carry it by her side, but the thought of putting so much pressure on the _explosives_ resting against her rib cage makes her lightheaded with fear. So she’ll just do her best.

“No,” he says, pointing at the trackers. “Pick those up, too.”

“But,” she begins, and makes herself _stop talking_. Because _don’t help the bomber, Felicity_. Wordlessly, she leans down and grabs the trackers. 

“Good girl,” Wilson says, and that teasing lilt is back in his voice. “Now follow me. And don’t get any big ideas.”

They emerge back into another of the long, beige hallways they’d traversed earlier, and Wilson moves quickly to the left. Felicity nearly has to run to keep up. When they reach a corner, he gestures that she should move in front of him.

Another corridor stretches away to their right. Wilson tilts his head. “Throw those trackers as far as you can.”

Felicity blinks. Then she complies, hurling the trackers hard, but rather ineffectively. They’re small and relatively light, and clatter along the floor, not making it even a third of the way. 

But Wilson never even looks. He grabs her arm again, yanking her around and pushing her back in the direction they came. Felicity scans the hallway, looking for _something_ \-- a surveillance camera, a door with a window and a _person_ inside of it. _Anything_.

There’s nothing.

Her arm muscles are protesting the weight of the money, and she shifts the duffel to her other hand. Her instincts are screaming that she should try to get away from him soon, _now_. He isn’t bringing her anywhere good, and every step takes her farther and farther from the police presence at Bullock Square.

Farther and farther from Oliver.

When they reach the other end of the hallway, there’s a staircase going down to their left. A dark stairwell, lit only by the dim lights from the hallway, even though there’s a fluorescent panel right where it should be. Wilson, apparently impatient with her pace, snaps, “Let’s go,” and brushes past her. 

Felicity follows him down the stairs, awkwardly with the extra weight of the explosives vest and all the cash. The worn tile is smooth and slippery beneath her bare feet, so she moves slowly, using the handrail to keep her balance. 

Wilson reaches the landing and starts down the second flight. Felicity hears just the barest sound of movement behind her, and then a loud, commanding voice yelling, “SCPD. Freeze!”

& & &

The chatter over the comms cuts out abruptly once Oliver hollers his first order to the bomber. Dig must’ve figured out what’s going on and cleared the channel; Oliver doesn’t expect much communication coming his way, since he’s effectively running point on this, but backup should be on the way.

Problem is, they’re too far away, and they’ll waste precious time trying to figure out where the hell Oliver even is -- it’s not like he left a trail of breadcrumbs once he dropped into the subway system. And he can’t spare the attention to try to report where he is -- not that even _knows_ exactly where he is.

So he needs to handle this on his own -- no assuming anyone’s gonna be here in time to cover his six, or improve his tactical situation. Whatever happens, it’s on him.

Oliver is in a perfect, practiced shooting stance -- feet spread, body slightly angled, left hand supporting the butt of the gun, right hand wrapped around the handle, finger alongside the trigger.

Safety off. Because he _will_ shoot if he needs to. 

“Turn around,” he orders. Loudly. He’s got every single ounce of his attention on the figure in the stairwell.

This is the seventh time he’s drawn his service weapon in his career; the day-to-day job of a cop just doesn’t involved armed confrontation. But he’s trained extensively for this -- the SWAT team spends time each month working through tactics, putting its members through scenarios to hone their instincts under stressful situations, forcing them to learn how to identify threats and targets among the masses.

And all of that knowledge, all of that training is telling Oliver that there’s something... _off_ here. Something’s wrong with this situation. He doesn’t know what, but his instincts are screaming at him. And when he’s got his weapon out and aimed at another human being, uncertainty is fucking unacceptable. 

He can feel his heart rate speed up; he scans for any sign that this is a trap, listens hard for any indication of an ambush. 

Still, the figure in the stairwell doesn’t move. 

Oliver shifts slightly, gun still aimed center mass, trigger finger still safely along the barrel. “ _Turn around_ ,” he repeats, and it’s much louder this time. More of a growl than an order. His eyes are adjusting to the low light, and he can make out a few details as the figure slowly, slowly begins to turn towards him.

It’s when she’s in profile that Oliver sees the ponytail. A blonde ponytail. _Felicity’s_ ponytail. His stomach drops, and he swings the gun down and away from her.

“No,” he whispers. She’s spun all the way around. Even in the dim light, he can plainly see the scared, resigned expression on her face. Something twists painfully inside of his ribcage.

Felicity has one hand lifted in surrender, and even at a distance, Oliver can see that she’s shaking. She’s holding one of the duffel bags, and she’s got-- She’s wearing--

“I’m sorry,” Felicity says, just barely loud enough to be heard.

“Felicity,” Oliver answers, anguished, as he stares at the ring of explosives around her torso. How the fuck did this happen? How did the bomber outwit them? How did he get his hands on Felicity? “Is it armed?” he asks, belatedly realizing he’s leaning forward, his body reacting viscerally to the site of her in such danger.

And then, from around the corner of the stairwell, there’s a gun pressed to her temple.

Oliver freezes. 

“Uh, uh, uh,” the bomber warns, urging her sideways on the landing as he comes into view, wearing -- fuck, a police uniform. He’s a tall man, well-built, with an eye-patch and burn marks on his face. And he’s brandishing what Oliver immediately recognizes as a deadman’s switch.

Fuck. 

_Fuck_.

He’s already automatically lifted the gun and has the bomber in his sights. But he can’t pull the trigger, or Felicity will die, too. Probably him as well, but he doesn't really give a shit about that right now.

“Seems like we’re at a bit of an impasse, kid.”

“Let her go,” Oliver growls. It’s futile, because the sociopathic asshole is currently holding all the cards. He knows that, but he _has_ to try.

In answer, the asshole moves, stepping behind Felicity’s trembling form to use her as a human shield. Like the piece of fucking _garbage_ this guy is. He's so much taller than Felicity that Oliver has the perfect shot -- a headshot, minimally dangerous for her. But he can't take it because the bomber is holding a fucking detonator with a deadman's switch.

“You don’t need her,” Oliver insists. Loudly. “Take your money and walk.” And right now? At this exact moment? Oliver means it all the way down to his bones. He will let his man walk away if that’s the only way to save Felicity.

And then Oliver will make it his life’s work to track this asshole down and put him in a very small cage for a very long time. But he will absolutely stand down and let him go to save Felicity.

“That’s not how this works,” the bomber warns, gun still pressed against Felicity’s head.

Oliver is cataloging every detail, looking for any weakness, anything that he can use. But he needs time, he needs information.

“Did they put you on desk duty because of that?” Oliver prods, gesturing vaguely towards his own face to indicate the bomber’s missing or injured eye. The service weapon Oliver has trained on the bomber’s forehead never wavers. There’s no margin for error, and Oliver knows he won’t take the shot; he _can’t_. But he also can’t lower his gun in a fucking hostage situation.

The bomber presses the gun harder against Felicity’s temple, and she tilts her head, shying away from the pressure.

“Or did they put you out to pasture when you got hurt?” Oliver pushes. 

But it’s a little bit too much pressure. “You think this is about me?” the bomber roars. “About what _I_ lost? She--”

Oliver stills. The bomber is unstable, and if he’s pushed too far--

Oliver _has_ to get this right. He has to. He inhales slowly, slowly, letting the bomber settle. When he speaks again, he tries as hard as he can to keep his voice low and kind. “Then what is it about? What happened to her?”

“She’s _dead_ ," the bomber spits. "They let my partner _die_. I loved her and she’s _dead_.”

Oliver can’t let himself look at Felicity. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But this isn’t going to bring her back. Hurting another woman won’t--”

“Don’t you talk about her!” the bomber shouts, and he’s moving, pulling Felicity backwards. She stumbles, then recovers. “You stay right fucking there,” he orders.

“Oliver!” Felicity yelps, her panicked gaze settling on him.

But Oliver can’t push any harder -- not when the bomber is this wound up. He holds his position, gun trained well above her head, because he doesn’t have any kind of shot when they’re moving. The bomber pulls her towards the second flight of stairs, blocked from Oliver’s sight by a wall, and he grimaces when she gives him one last, panicked look.

As soon as they’re out of sight, Oliver races down the first flight of stairs, not even caring that his footfalls are audible. 

When he pauses at the corner to listen, he hears the squeal of door hinges, and swings his gun around the corner, staying low. 

The bomber fires immediately, but the shot goes wide. Oliver pauses just long enough to glance at Felicity, wincing away from the gun held way too close to her unprotected ear. Another gunshot, and Oliver ducks away, tapping his mic to confirm active shooter.

Oliver hates, _hates_ sitting back and letting them go, but this stairwell is a tactical nightmare. Getting himself killed won't help Felicity at all.

Dig’s voice is in his ear, demanding details, and Oliver speaks as quickly and quietly as possible, “Bomber’s wearing a cop uniform. Got a semiautomatic and a hostage in a bomb vest. Deadman’s switch.”

Oliver takes two deep breaths before a door slams in the stairwell below. He tilts his head around to confirm they’re gone, and leaps down the stairs, taking them two-at-a-time.

The fucking door is locked.

“No,” he shouts. “No, _no_!”

Oliver presses his ear to the door, trying to determine what’s behind it. The crowd noises from earlier are amplified, and he hears panicked voices, shouting, yelling. Unless he’s mistaken, the bomber just emerged onto a subway platform waving a gun.

“Fuck!”

It’s the safer play to pick the lock, because he can’t control where the bullet will go if he shoots it. But Oliver has never been a patient person. 

Taking two steps back, he aims at the lock and fires one bullet. The gun jumps in his hand, and he barely pauses before kicking the door open.

He was right -- it’s the Bullock Square subway platform, and it’s chaos.

“SCPD!” he shouts, but it’s useless. No one can hear him above the din.

Oliver flicks the safety on, holds his gun against his thigh, and moves into the crowd, looking for the bomber, for Felicity. He makes it four steps before he hears the warning _ding_ of the train. Doors are closing.

He hesitates for the barest of seconds, then takes off at a dead run.

END CHAPTER


	5. Chapter 5

Panic is contagious.

That’s one of those universal truths that Felicity has always kind of known, but never seen in action. Not like this, anyway.

The milling, disinterested crowd of commuters meandering along the subway platform morphs -- suddenly and stunningly -- into a thoughtless stampede about two seconds after Wilson fires his gun. Not _at_ anyone -- at least not yet. Still, once the first few people look up and see a lunatic with a gun dragging a woman around, it’s like Felicity can _feel_ the shift in the air.

And it’s more than just a sharp tension jumping from person to person like a virus -- it’s _everything_. 

It’s involuntary gasps and yelps of fear. It’s the sudden blur of color as people stampede away away _away_ , careening off each other, bags swinging into other people’s midsections. It’s the slack-jawed, wide-eyed expressions Felicity sees aimed in her direction in the split second before they turn away to flee.

As she’s hauled along, the strange feel of her bare feet slapping against the cool tile of the subway platform only adds to surreality of the situation. Because she’s at the center of all of this chaos, and everyone is running _away_ , leaving wide berth between themselves and the madman beside her. She can’t begrudge them their survival instinct, but, God, she wishes someone could help her.

She wishes _Oliver_ could have helped her in the stairwell.

That’s not really fair -- the gutted look on his face had been more than enough to let her know he would have done pretty much anything he could have to get her out of this predicament. (Which, honestly, is too small of a word to encompass _being strapped inside a bomb_ , but to be fair, she’s not sure how many words in the English language would be expansive enough for _this_. So.)

Logically, she knows there’s nothing Oliver could have done in that stairwell that wouldn’t have resulted in her death. And quite probably his as well. Ultimately, the deadman’s switch is the exact same reason _she_ hasn’t tried attacking Wilson to fight her way free. The unlikeliness of a positive outcome from _that_ kind of boneheaded move notwithstanding.

She _knows_ the helplessness of her situation. She does.

But logic and bone-rattling dread are very different things, and even as Wilson hauls her closer and closer to the idling subway train, even as the subway platform continues to empty rapidly of anyone who could possibly help her, a small, terrified part of her brain is screaming, begging, crying for someone to rescue her. For _Oliver_ to rescue her.

And, God, she hates being a damsel, but this sure qualifies as distress.

“None of that,” Wilson snaps, tugging sharply on her arm.

Felicity realizes that she’s been falling behind, leaning her weight back, trying to slow things down. Because not twenty feet ahead of them looms an open subway train car. She knows -- _knows_ \-- if she gets on that train, she’ll die.

“No,” she whispers, digging her heels in, but her feet slip along the tile when he pulls harder. “Here,” she pleads, holding the bag of cash towards him, ignoring the way her arm shakes with strain and fatigue and nerves. “ _Please_ , you don’t need me. Please.”

The train chimes its doors-about-to-close warning. It’s a sound she hears every day, and it’s never really registered, never mind reduced her to shivering fear.

That contemptuous rage flashes across Wilson’s face, and he has his free hand clamped around her throat before she can move. He tightens his grip, squeezing her throat closed, and it _hurts_ , and she can’t breathe. Her panic spikes. Felicity makes small, desperate choking noises, dropping the duffel bag and scrabbling, clawing at his hand.

“Get,” Wilson growls, enunciating every word, “on the train.”

She’s wholly focused on relieving the pressure on her windpipe, of drawing air into her burning lungs, so the brutal shove he gives her sends Felicity tumbling into the subway car. She lands hard on her hip and one hand, jarring her wrist. Her body curls forward onto the worn vinyl flooring as she drags in huge gulps of air, spots dancing in her vision.

Wilson hurls the second bag of money into the car after her, hitting her in the legs with it. Which feels a little bit like someone just dropped a house on her shins. Wincing, she scrambles backwards as he stalks into the car, pressing her back against the doors, leaving the width of the train between them. 

Felicity is breathing in quick, panicky gasps and swallowing compulsively to soothe her angry throat. The train car is empty of passengers. She looks around desperately -- but she only takes her eyes off of Wilson for quick glances; every instinct is telling her he is particularly dangerous in this moment, all coiled rage and violent impulse.

He turns his attention elsewhere, and she wilts a bit in relief. Banging on the plastic-covered wall of the train car, Wilson hollers, “Get this thing moving.”

Felicity glances toward the front of the train car. She doesn’t have enough of her wits about her to take in more than the vaguest impression of the driver -- a pale, wide-eyed expression of fear surrounded by a shock of dark hair -- before he turns away and drops into his seat.

The doors slide shut, trapping her. Felicity feels her heart hammering in her chest as the train pulls slowly into the darkened tunnel, picking up speed when Wilson threatens the driver.

She glances around, but it’s a subway car like the dozens of others she’s ridden on before. There are three sets of passenger doors spaced out along the length of the car. Between each set of doors, passenger seats are bolted to the floor on either side, leaving a relatively narrow aisle. Vertical balance poles stand in little thickets near the passenger doors, allowing riders to ebb and flow into the cars at times of peak ridership.

There’s no one on this car, and nothing she can use as a weapon. Everything solid is hard molded plastic or bolted down. There are a few crumpled newspapers abandoned on the seats, but Felicity doesn’t see so much as a forgotten umbrella that could possibly be used as a makeshift weapon.

Pulling her knees up to her chest, she lets herself go numb. There’s just -- there’s too much. Her wrist is sparking with pain, her hip aching, her throat still hurts a little, she’s so cold that she’s trembling with it, and she’s never been this scared in her life. Aside from the terrified driver, she’s alone with Wilson, and she’s almost certain she’s going to die within the next hour. She tucks her forehead to her kneecaps and tries to breathe.

“Up,” Wilson orders, and she flinches. She knows he’s close, but startles when she looks up. Because the sight of him looming over her, a hard look on his face, is something she just isn’t prepared for. 

Tears sting at her eyes, and she lifts her chin just a bit, refusing to be weak. She has a shitty hand right now, sure, but she’s still alive. She’s not about to give up while there’s a breath in her body. No matter how scared she is.

Wilson lifts an eyebrow. “ _Up_ ,” he repeats. Then he pulls a pair of handcuffs from his belt, dangling them in front of her face.

Felicity shuts her eyes in silent protest.

Or possibly resignation. Because when he kicks her thigh sharply enough to make her hiss, and she climbs resentfully to her feet. “Where do you think I’m going to go?” she wonders. And if her tone is a little petulant, well, who can blame her?

Wilson wraps his hand around her upper arm so hard she’s pretty sure she’ll have bruises, and then yanks her over to one of the floor-to-ceiling metal poles in the center of the car, intended as a balance aid for riders who aren’t lucky enough to find open seats. 

Normally, there would be at least a dozen passengers on the train, running errands at lunch or meeting friends or shopping. But today it’s just her, the bomber, and the subway conductor on this car. And Wilson still wants to cuff her in place.

She hesitates before holding her hands up on either side of the pole, clenching her jaw as he puts the cuffs on her with a series of sharp metallic clicks. He closes the bracelets so there’s only a little bit of play around her wrists, and then turns away, moving closer to the driver to bark some directions at him.

Felicity has never been handcuffed before. Just another in the long line of terrifying new experiences she’s had today. 

After a quick glance to make sure Wilson’s attention is elsewhere, she instinctively tugs back, catching the chain on the pole and testing to see if her hands will slip out. The metal bites into her skin, grinding against her bones, and there’s clearly no way she’ll get herself out of these. Or, consequently, off this train.

Shit.

“Next stop,” she hears Wilson say in a strange, somehow jubilant tone that draws her attention, “purgatory.”

Just as Felicity turns toward the front of the car, Wilson lifts his gun and shoots the driver in the back of the head. The dark-haired man slumps forward immediately onto the driver’s console, unmoving, and the train starts to pick up some speed. 

Felicity gapes at the gruesome scene, at the dark red blood she can see on the console and on the windshield. Disbelief and shock and a sick, sweaty nausea wash over her.

When Wilson turns his really terrifying smirk in her direction, Felicity is pretty sure she’s screaming.

& & &

By the time Oliver makes it across the subway platform, it’s empty of panicked passengers. And the train is picking up speed, doors firmly closed, disappearing into the dark tunnel.

He shoves his gun in his waistband and keeps pace, wedging his fingers between the rubber edges of a door on the last car. It hurts, pinching his fingertips, but he presses harder, prying, pulling them open until he can get a foot in.

But he’s quickly running out of subway station. He’ll either be a pancake up against the half-railing meant to keep people from toppling off the end of the platform, or he’ll have to sit back and watch the train that he’s 99% sure Felicity and the bomber are on disappear into the subway system. 

Not an option.

Oliver redoubles his effort, grunting, employing every last bit of upper body strength left in his tired body to inch the doors farther apart until he can barely squeeze through. Just as he falls into the car, he swears he can hear Tommy shouting his name from the platform. Oliver rolls quickly to his feet, but the train is already in the tunnels and he can’t see if his squad actually came that close to catching up to him.

Gun out and pointed low, Oliver confirms this train car is empty. He taps his chest mic. “Dig?”

Nothing.

With a grimace, Oliver tries again. “Dig, I’m on a subway train, just pulling out of Bullock Square.”

No answer, and Oliver dismisses any thought of backup. This is on him. Saving Felicity from this motherfucker is all on him. An ache blooms in his chest, and Oliver allows himself one slow, steadying breath.

Then he’s moving, heading forward, past the rows of empty seats, and between the vertical bars set in the open space near each set of passenger doors. At the front of the car, he looks through the window on the top-half of the emergency doors into the next car. It’s empty, and he thinks the one in front of that one is, too, but it’s hard to be sure from this distance. 

The doors between subway cars aren’t intended to be used outside of emergency situations, but Oliver wrenches it open anyway. He steadies himself as he steps across the ten inch gap, ignoring the rush of wind, the loud rattle of metal wheels on iron tracks, and pushes the door to the next car open. 

It’s hard, but Oliver fights the niggling thought that maybe he’s wrong, maybe the bomber took Felicity somewhere else. That this train is only empty because the bomber caused panic on the platform to more easily melt into the crowd and get away. 

But if he did that, then where is Felicity?

Oliver _has_ to find her. There’s something tight and stressed behind his ribcage when he thinks about the devastated look on her face in that fucking stairwell. She’d looked at him like she was forgiving his failure, like she was almost resigned to _dying_ by the hand of some asshole.

That _can’t happen_.

“Fuck,” he says, jogging to the other end of the car. He pauses briefly when the train hurtles through a station, catching the surprised looks on some waiting passengers’ faces as they step back from yellow line. The train doesn’t slow, doesn’t pause, and Oliver is now _certain_ the bomber’s on it. That he’s controlling the conductor.

Quickly, Oliver travels three more car lengths before he sees movement in the car ahead. From his vantage point, he can’t discern much. He crouches behind a seat, trying to get any kind of read on what’s going on, _without_ being seen. A subway train is about as tactically terribly as the stairwell was -- the only advantage Oliver thinks he may have is surprise, but only if he stays well out of sight.

And he looks for something, _anything_ else, to tilt the odds a little more in his favor.

All he can see for sure is the bomber’s dark police uniform, pacing back and forth about two-thirds of the subway car length ahead. 

Timing his movements carefully, he stays low, moving forward to crouch beside the emergency door. Now that the bomber’s less than a car length away, Oliver can see more detail, and--

Felicity.

He lets out a shaky breath as he sees her standing near the front of the subway car, her blonde ponytail unmistakable. And she’s _standing_ means she’s still alive.

He drinks in the sight of Felicity upright and relatively unharmed for a moment, before making himself tear his gaze from her and focus on the bomber. Because as relieved as he is to see her, Oliver does _not_ like the implications of the bomber keeping her with him so long. Because as far as this asshole knows, he’s essentially gotten away. He’s got the money and he’s on the train making his escape. Why keep Felicity with him? Why keep her wired to blow?

Oliver really fucking _hates_ the conclusions he can’t escape -- loathes the idea of the bomber killing her just because he can. Just because it’ll add confusion to the investigation -- one last bit of chaos to cover his escape.

There’s no time for that worst-case-scenario shit, though, because Oliver refuses to let that be the outcome.

He studies the situation for any kind of tactical advantage, any optimal way to approach, but he knows already there’s no good way to do this. Brightly lit subway cars traveling through dark tunnels are not at all conducive to stealthy approaches -- as soon as he opens the door between the cars, the bomber will have a free shot at him.

Of course, if the bomber’s aiming at him, he’s not aiming at Felicity, and that thought alone is enough to get Oliver moving again. He can’t wait any longer -- the situation is not going to get any better, but it sure as shit might deteriorate. 

Reluctantly, he tucks his gun into his waistband and waits just until the bomber turns away. His only shot at this is the combination of a little bit of surprise and a lot of speed. Yanking open the door on his car, Oliver balances himself in the space between the cars and then shoves the other door open. 

He hurtles forward, without a thought to tactics, his only goal to just get to the bomber.

The bomber whirls around, his expression darkening, and his confused hesitation is _almost_. It _almost_ buys enough time. Then he’s coming for Oliver.

They’re moving towards each other, and Oliver already knows he’s going to be a couple seconds too late.

The bomber’s gun swing towards him, the barrel coming up, coming around.

Oliver adds a desperate burst of speed, but he’s still ten feet away. Instead of trying to tackle the bomber and, consequently, running straight into a bullet, he changes course at the last second, diving sideways for the meager cover of the plastic seats.

But it’s too late.

The bomber fires, and Oliver feels the burning sting of the bullet as he falls.

& & &

Felicity is not proud of how detached and lethargic she feels, standing in the middle of a subway car with a cold-blooded murderer.

Once she’d stopped screaming, she’d just... stopped. Right now, she just needs to stand here and be quiet and not think about what she’s just seen. Not think about the blood or the-- No. Quiet. No thinking about how she just saw someone _die_.

The only way she can make her hands stop shaking is to wrap them around the balance bar she’s handcuffed to; it’s awkward, but it does the trick. She closes her eyes and focuses every atom of her being on the feel of the smooth, cool metal warming slowly against her palms.

“Don’t worry, blondie,” Wilson says in that smug tone that would make her furious or nauseated if she weren’t wrapped in emotional cotton. “It won’t hurt. It’ll all be over quick. Mess like that? they don’t even count body parts.”

The cruel taunt slices through her fog, and she opens her eyes. He’s several feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her with that same cold smile that terrified her earlier.

He’s going to kill her. 

After all of this, after the bus and the crazy access panel escape and the gun held to her head, he’s going to blow her up and take the money and hope the investigators just think he got... what, trigger happy and blew himself up by accident?

As plans go, it’s a _really_ bad one. 

Still, she comes very, very close to vomiting as her horror and rage and panic come screaming back to her full force.

Then everything happens at once.

There’s a metallic sound at the far end of the subway car and a sudden increase in the volume of train-on-tracks noises. Wilson lets out a guttural cry of rage, and Felicity automatically turns to look.

When she sees Oliver, she’s dumbfounded. She tries not to hope, tries not to believe there’s anything he can do. But she’s an optimistic person at heart, and he’s amazing and he’s _here_. For her. To save her. Hope bubbles up despite her misgivings.

Shouldn’t she get a happy ending to this awful day?

But Oliver and Wilson are running towards each other, and before she can process what’s actually happening, Wilson has the gun out and he fires and Oliver lurches to one side, falling between the seats.

“Oliver!” she shouts, her voice high and tight and shaky. “No! _Oliver_!”

After a horrible moment, she sees his foot move, and knows at least he’s not dead (yet?). But Wilson is bearing down on him, gun in one hand, deadman’s switch in the other, and Felicity is utterly sure she’s about to see Oliver die. 

“No, _please_ ,” she screams, knowing it’s futile. She yanks the metal of her handcuffs against the pole and pulls, trying to go help, to distract Wilson -- _anything_.

Oliver lashes out with one leg, his body partially wedged under the seat. Wilson stumbles from the blow, and then, somehow, Oliver is upright, blood staining the left sleeve of his already dirty t-shirt. The two men are locked together, with Oliver’s left hand clamped around Wilson’s right wrist, ensuring the gun stays pointed away. She wonders how long he’ll be able to keep hold of Wilson, since she’s pretty sure he was shot in the bicep.

Wilson lets out a wordless noise of frustration and then they’re grappling. Felicity moves to the side, leaning as far as the handcuffs will allow, trying to see what’s happening, since they’re too far away for her to _do_ helpful. Her breath is coming fast and unsteady as she watches, eyes wide. She can hear the grunts of exertion as they struggle, but she has no idea how she’s supposed to know who’s really winning the battle. They seem pretty evenly matched to her, and time seems to slow down as she watches Oliver try press for an advantage and then retreat.

His right hand clamps over Wilson’s left, holding the deadman’s switch tightly. Felicity can see him moving his fingers, trying to pry the detonator loose from Wilson. Oliver’s focus gives Wilson an opening -- he delivers a vicious kick to Oliver’s knee that draws a loud shout of pain. 

Oliver drops that knee to the ground, his face a mask of anguish, but he doesn’t let go of the detonator. Grimacing, he pushes back up, forcing the gun in Wilson’s right hand upwards, away from both of them. Wilson’s finger is still on the trigger, but it’s aimed at the ceiling.

Abruptly, Oliver shoves Wilson into the edge of a seat, and the bomber roars with rage. It looks like Oliver _almost_ the best of him. But Wilson surges to his feet, moving Oliver back a few steps until his shoulder is against a vertical pole just like the one Felicity’s cuffed to.

Felicity holds her breath at the fierce determination on Oliver’s face, the bulging strain of his biceps as they struggle for control of the gun, of the detonator, of the fight.

The stalemate -- deadman’s switch held tight in two hands, gun aimed at nothing -- lasts too long, and is over too soon.

Without warning, Wilson lets go of his gun and takes half a step back. Oliver’s arm snaps upwards at the sudden loss of counterpressure, and Wilson grabs for the gun in Oliver’s waistband. Both men are still stubbornly holding the detonator, meaning any shot will be point blank.

It’s purely a race now, a perverted, modern-day quick draw contest.

Felicity is frozen, horrified, as Wilson brings Oliver’s service weapon up, and Oliver brings Wilson’s gun down.

The gunshot is so loud. _So_ loud.

And Felicity closes her eyes just for the briefest of moments, her hands pressed to her face in denial.

But when she looks up, Oliver is standing over Wilson’s prone body with a grey, tight expression on his face. A pool of dark red is spreading slowly around Wilson’s unmoving body. Felicity isn’t sure whether Oliver’s stone-faced stillness is a reaction to shooting Wilson, or blood loss from the bullet in his arm, but he just stands there, the deadman’s switch tightly held in one hand, Wilson’s gun dangling from the other. 

After a timeless moment of shocked stillness, Oliver flips the safety on the gun in his hand. He reaches down to do the same to his gun, but leaves it where it fell, which is all the confirmation Felicity needs that Wilson is well and truly dead. She supposes she should feel something other than grim satisfaction, but that’s about all she can muster up at the moment. 

Oliver is moving towards her with slow, careful steps; Felicity thinks he might barely be holding himself together as he comes closer, placing the gun on an empty seat.

His expression shifts when he looks at her. It softens, and the weird, flat affect is gone, replaced by visible concern.

“Oliver,” she says. Well, croaks, more accurately. Because she’s -- _God_ \-- so relieved he’s here and he’s alive and _she’s_ alive and Wilson is... not, but she still feels... _overwrought_. 

“Hey,” Oliver says in this impossibly soft tone, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek lightly. “You’re safe.”

Felicity’s focus shifts to the blood on his arm. “You’re shot,” she says around a lump in her throat. With shaking fingers, she reaches up and lifts his t-shirt sleeve out of the way so she can see the wound. It’s small and round and leaking blood, and she’s only vaguely nauseated looking at it, which she’s pretty sure means this whole day of suck has toughened her up.

“It’s nothing,” Oliver assures her. Then he drops his hand to her shoulder, his fingers tracing the edges of the explosives vest where it’s digging into her skin. “Let’s get this off of you.”

Felicity nods enthusiastically. “Yes, let’s.” She realizes she’s still touching his arm, still basically caressing it, and lets her hands drop. The handcuff chain clanks against the stupid metal pole and she makes a face.

Oliver has already turned his entire focus to the remote detonator in his hand, examining it thoroughly. Then he looks it over again. Finally, just as Felicity is starting to panic spiral a little, thinking maybe he doesn’t know how to disarm this particular detonator, maybe she’s going to be stuck inside this bomb a little longer, he calmly flips a small switch along the side, and the ready light blinks off.

Felicity sags against the bar she’s handcuffed to in relief. Then she straightens. “Wait,” she says before he can put the detonator down. “Check the inside of the vest,” she orders, unzipping it and turning her back to him. “There was a green light on the panel inside, too.”

After a moment, his fingers brush her ponytail to the side, and she shivers. Oliver eases the vest away from her, and after a moment, he exhales in relief. His breath skims across the skin of her neck, and she feels goosebumps along her arms.

“All set,” he tells her, squeezing her shoulders lightly.

Shakily, Felicity turns back to him and their gazes meet. Oliver gives her a smile as he pulls a utility knife from his tactical vest.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, and then he’s holding the shoulder strap of the vest up away from her skin. The small, serrated blade grates through the fibers relatively quickly, and Oliver moves to the other side. 

When it’s free, he pulls the vest from her and she rolls her shoulders in relief. Turning, she watches him lay it carefully on the seat beside the gun.

“Thanks,” Felicity says.

The train hurtles past another brightly lit subway platform, and both Oliver and Felicity glance reflexively out the train windows.

She frowns. “Did that say--?”

“Sorrentino,” Oliver interrupts, moving quickly towards the front of the train and the dead driver. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t...” Felicity licks her lips. “Isn’t Sorrentino the end of the line?”

“It’s the end of the the current green line, yes,” Oliver answers absently. He’s fiddling with the controls. Or, probably he’s doing something much more official and appropriate than _fiddling_ , but she can’t actually see much from her handcuffed vantage point, and she also doesn’t know anything much about trains. She feels a shift in their momentum -- from steady speed to the slightest bit of deceleration. They’re slowing down, but very, very gradually. 

Oliver tries the radio, apparently with no luck, and then bangs his fist on the console.

“What’s wrong?” Felicity asks.

“Neither brake system is working correctly,” he says grimly.

Felicity shakes her head. “Neither...?”

“I can’t get the train to slow down very much using the brakes or the throttle,” he explains, “and the emergency brake won’t work at all. I think maybe the blood--” He stops talking, pressing his lips together, but Felicity’s stomach lurches anyway. 

She takes a moment to process the implications, takes a slow breath in and blows it out. “And we’re heading towards the end of the rail system. The end of the _tracks_.”

“Actually,” he says, moving to her side and taking her hands in his, lifting them to examine the handcuffs, “this line used to be longer. There’s a whole network of abandoned stations under the Glades. They’ve been closed probably 30 years.”

His hands are warm and careful as he angles her wrists this way and that, examining the cuffs. Felicity shifts her hands in his grip, squeezes his fingers to get his attention. “So we have time to figure out how to work the brakes?”

But when Oliver looks up at her, she knows the answer before he says it. “There’s a wall,” he answers. “Between the active tracks and the abandoned portions.”

“We’re--” Felicity stops, swallows hard, and tries very, _very_ hard not to think _force equals mass times acceleration_. Or about their current velocity and however many tons of train they’re on encountering a sudden barrier. Newton’s second law suggests it will not go well for two fragile human bodies. “We’re going to hit a wall?”

Because _seriously_?

& & &

Oliver ignores the creeping dread, the mental countdown in his head until they impact... _something_. He can’t say for sure what’s between the active subway system and the abandoned portions, but his unit trained in the old, decaying stations and tunnels two years ago, and it was a closed universe.

There _has_ be some kind of safety measure at the end of the tracks, but he’s not convinced it’ll be enough with the train’s current speed, since the fucking braking system is trashed. They are still slowing down, little by little, but there’s no way there’s enough track left for them to slow enough to just kind of gently nudge the wall when they reach it. 

So he’s hoping like hell that the wall between old and new subway tracks is just a flimsy plywood barrier; considering the way the day has gone so far, he sure as hell isn’t banking on it.

They need off this train, and if not off, they at least need to make it as far back from the initial point of impact as possible. They could try to ride out the collision there. They could even try jumping out of the last car. Assuming they can direct the landing and avoid the third rail, at this point he’d happily take whatever broken bones or other injuries would be involved in landing on a fucking train track.

But Felicity is handcuffed to this fucking pole.

And he knows from the drawn look on her face that she perfectly understands their dilemma. “Do you have a key?” she asks anyway.

Oliver tightens his grip on her fingers. “No,” he manages, his voice low and regretful. Because he’s a fucking cop, and he _should_ have handcuff keys. One whole pocket of his tactical vest is full to bursting with plastic zip ties, but he hasn’t carried metal handcuffs since making the SWAT team. Goddammit.

Felicity simply nods, accepting his answer, and something in him snaps.

This is _not_ how they’re going out. They did _not_ survive all the shit this day has thrown at them just to die horribly in a train crash.

He drops her hands and grips the vertical bar, determined to do _something_. With a primal scream, he puts his entire being -- every pound he ever lifted, every pull up, every leg lift, every single bit of strength in his body -- into pulling and straining at the bar. The wound in his left bicep is stinging, and he can feel the blood start flowing again. He ignores it, grunting with effort, sweat breaking out across his chest.

But it’s futile, so he steps back and unleashes vicious kicks, the impact jarring up his leg, his injured knee singing with pain.

He stops and looks up at where the bar is fastened to the ceiling, then down where it meets the floor. He needs a screwdriver, but he lost the one from his tactical vest under that fucking bus. He pats his pockets, but all he has is the small knife knife with the serrated blade, which was fine for cutting through fabric, but will not stand up to industrially installed metal screws. 

_Fuck_.

Felicity is straining against the cuffs, using her whole body weight to try to pull herself free. Tears stream down her face, and he can see the red welts raising around her wrists.

They both give up at the same time, their gazes meeting and holding. She sniffles, reaching up to swipe at the tear tracks on her cheeks. With a stubborn tilt of her chin, she says in a tone that is way too steady for the situation, “Oliver, you need to go.”

He stares at her, uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“You need to go,” she repeats, tilting her head towards the other end of the train car, back the way he came. “ _Go_.”

That tightness in his chest squeezes his lungs, stealing his breath as he realizes she expects him to _leave her to die_. “Felicity, I can’t.”

Her bittersweet smile is heartbreaking. “No, _I_ can’t,” she says, rattling the cuffs against the pole. “But you can.”

“No,” he tells her. It’s not a thing he would ever consider doing. He is firm on this. Immovable. “You wouldn’t leave me on the bus,” he points out. “I’m not leaving you here.”

They’re standing close together, swaying slightly with the motion of the train. She tilts her head slightly, studying him. He wonders what she’s looking for, and whether she found it when her lips tighten and she gives a brief nod.

Then she reaches for his hands, tugging him one step closer. “I know it goes against type,” she says, the quaver in her voice betraying her careful stoicism, “but I want to be Butch, okay?”

Oliver blinks. “Huh?”

Her smile is genuine and the saddest fucking thing he’s ever seen. “Please tell me you’ve seen _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_.”

He can’t help but smile back at her, despite _everything_. “Did you just call me Sundance.”

She is standing in front of him, bruised and shaken, and so beautiful it almost hurts to look at her. “Yup,” she answers cheekily.

Very deliberately, he turns them, placing his body between her and the front of the car. Between her and the coming collision. Felicity nods once and steps forward, lifting her handcuffed arms up and over his head to wrap around his neck. Oliver bands his arms tightly around her ribcage. 

“Don’t let go,” she whispers into his chest.

Oliver thinks about physics, about accident scenes he’d worked as a beat cop, about her arms being handcuffed around this fucking pole at the moment of impact. “I won’t,” he answers, and it feels like the most important promise he’s ever made.

“Okay,” she says. He can feel her cheek moving against his chest and knows without even being able to see her that she’s smirking. “Sundance,” she adds.

He opens his mouth to answer her, but never gets the chance -- the train reaches the end of the tracks and drops a couple of inches, rumbling along whatever device is in place to slow runaway trains. The train car shudders and bumps along.

Oliver braces his legs, tightens his grip on Felicity, and closes his eyes.

The collision, when it comes, is sudden and brutal.

& & &

It’s loud.

It’s terrifying and painful as Felicity and Oliver are tossed ruthlessly around. But her overwhelming impression is that it’s _loud_ \-- crashing metal, rattling framework, shattering glass.

And it won’t stop.

She’d hoped it would be quick, but the bone-jarring accident goes on and on and on. Eventually, she realizes they must have busted through the wall into the abandoned part of the subway, or she and Oliver would be pancakes by now.

She closes her eyes more tightly and presses her face into his chest, ignoring the way the metal pole between them is smooshing her boob.

Just as she’s starting to think they may make it through this after all, the world begins to tilt and fall.

Oliver’s arms tighten around her, so hard she can’t draw a full breath, and for a long, strange moment, they’re weightless as the train car falls over onto its side. On impact, the rattling is replaced by the inhuman screech of metal on concrete, and the scraping and splintering of a disintegrating structure. 

The metal pole between them catches on Felicity’s arm momentarily and she yelps at the brutal pressure on her shoulder, and then she and Oliver are falling. They land _hard_ , falling straight down onto what had been the sidewall of the train car, and is now serving as the floor. Her arm scrapes momentarily against the ground through the blown out window and she shrieks. Oliver rolls them both up onto the ads lining the walls above the windows, pressing her against the surviving surface, against what was the train car’s ceiling.

The sounds are still deafening, but Felicity realizes the train is slowing down. 

And then, suddenly, everything stops.

It’s over.

An eerie quiet replaces the cacophony, and Felicity opens her eyes. She’s lying mostly on top of Oliver, their limbs tangled together, but it’s so dark she can barely make out the slightly-less-dark outline of his face inches from her. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Felicity exhales shakily. “I don’t know.” Her glasses are gone, and she is a collection of aches and scrapes and pains, but nothing feels _too_ terrible. “I think so?”

“Hang on.” Oliver shifts beneath her, one arm still holding her securely in place against his chest, and then a small flashlight flips on, illuminating dust-filled air around them.

Oliver is gazing up at her, scanning her for visible injuries. He’s got a cut near his hairline that’s oozing blood, smudges of dirt along his cheek, and he’s far and away the most gorgeous thing she’s ever seen in her life. When their eyes lock, a warm rush of emotion clogs her throat and she tightens her hold on him, her fingers twisting into the damp cotton of his t-shirt. 

“You didn’t leave me,” she manages. Because that’s what people do -- they leave, often for no reason at all. But this man who had every life-preserving reason to flee chose to stay. “I can’t believe you didn’t leave me.”

His smile is blinding even in the dim glow of the flashlight. “Nowhere else I had to be just then.”

She wants badly to kiss him, to throw caution to the wind and just give in to all of this swirling... _stuff_ in her chest. But her gaze skitters away from him and she tries to orient herself in the ruins of the subway car. “Guess we didn’t die,” she says.

His palm flattens on her back, pressing warmly. “Again,” he adds.

The absurdity of his addition, of their _day_ hits her and she grins at him. “Cool.”

Oliver leans up and kisses her, and the last of her control snaps. She tells common sense and logic to fuck right off and just... sinks into the kiss. It’s good. Better than good. Better than great. Better than the one in the ambulance, because neither one of them is holding back. 

Her aching thigh, her bruised neck, her scraped up arm -- she doesn’t feel any of it anymore. His lips are soft and confident, and he brings a hand up to cup her head, shifting beneath her to deepen the kiss. It’s open lips and soft moans and _holy shit we didn’t die_ -level passionate, and _only_ because she’s sure he’s too injured to have hot, death-defying sex right now does she break the kiss. 

Eventually.

After a little bit more.

They’re both panting, both grinning when she leans up, her palm flat on his chest. “You’re bleeding,” she tells him. “You need a doctor.”

“You need a doctor,” he shoots back. His fingers trace a soft line along her neck where Wilson choked her. “Come on,” he says, shifting beneath her. “Let’s get out of here.”

Felicity is achy and bleeding from half a dozen small cuts and she’s pretty sure she sprained her wrist, but she’s still smiling as she carefully rolls off of him. Pushing herself upright, she hisses when glass and pebbles and detritus cut into the soles of her bare feet.

Oliver taps her arm to get her attention and hands her the flashlight.

“Oliver, what--?”

He sweeps her up by way of answering, one arm around her back, the other under her knees.

She blinks at him in surprise. “I can walk,” she protests mildly as he settles her against his chest.

“This is better,” he answers, picking his way carefully towards the large window that’s entirely missing from what is effectively now the ceiling. Felicity flashes the small beam of light around, but it appears their only viable escape route is up.

They’re both studying the opening, and then look at each other.

“Ready?” he asks, shifting a little as he prepares to hoist her up and out of the train car.

She nods. “Ready.”

& & &

Oliver remembers enough from the SCPD training sessions in the old subway tunnels to know the emergency exits in these abandoned stations are still passable. He figures that’s a safer bet than trying to make their way past an entire wrecked subway train to head back the way they came. Which, once they reach active train tracks, would also require staying well clear of the electrified third rail -- and hoping not to run into actual trains.

Once they’re out of the subway wreckage, Oliver lifts Felicity back into his arms, ignoring the protest from his injured knee, and her arguments.

“You’re barefoot,” he points out. It’s only mostly about her lack of footwear, though -- it’s at least a little bit because he came so fucking close to losing her that he needs to feel her against him. He needs to feel her breathing.

She rolls her eyes. “That doesn’t mean I can only travel by,” she shrugs, then pinches his arm lightly “ _bicep_ chariot.”

He smirks at her. “Bicep chariot?”

She taps her palm against his shoulder and grins. “Pick up the pace, Sundance.”

Oliver sighs, but there’s no heat behind it. “We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname.”

“Nope!” she answers, beaming at him. He already knows he’s going to be totally helpless against her particular brand of cheerfulness.

It takes maybe ten minutes for them to reach an old subway station. There are no emergency lights working and it’s eerie being in the echoey space lit only partially by the small beam from his flashlight. Oliver sits Felicity on the chest-high subway platform, then hoists himself up beside her. 

They walk side by side to the far wall, and Oliver leads them unerringly to the emergency exit. It’s a narrow stairwell, and pretty musty from years of disuse, but Felicity follows him without complaint. He tries the comms again, but there’s still nothing from his unit.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Oliver braces himself with a hand on the railing and puts his shoulder against the door. It takes a couple solid tries before he breaks through, and then he’s blinking against the sudden assault of sunlight. 

It feels like they’ve been going for _hours_ , but when he glances at his watch, it’s not even noon.

Oliver steps out onto the sidewalk and offers his hand to Felicity.

In the full light of the midday sun, he can see the toll the day has taken on her. Her ponytail is a little lopsided and stray, escaped strands frame her face. Her brightly colored dress is dirty and torn in a few places, offering peaks of toned thigh. He can already see the bruises forming on her arms and legs, and there are some scrapes and cuts, too. And she’s still cuffed.

She’s breathtaking. 

When Oliver realizes that they’re just standing there in the middle of the Glades grinning at each other like fools, he reaches for her hand and she wraps both of hers around his. They walk to the nearest intersection and read the street signs. Lemire and Seventh. They’ve emerged into a pretty shitty part of the Glades, but Oliver realizes he actually knows where they are.

“My family used to own a steel factory around here,” he says, gesturing vaguely down Lemire. The Big Belly Burger run by Diggle’s sister-in-law is two blocks away, actually, and Oliver decides that’s as good a place as any to go. They make their way slowly, ignoring the puzzled and judgmental looks from the occasional passerby. 

When he pushes open the door to the burger joint and ushers Felicity inside, Oliver feels a lot of the tension seep out of him. 

As soon as Carly sees them, she rushes over, eyes wide. “Oliver! What happened?”

“We’re okay,” he assures her. “But I need to call Dig.”

“Of course,” Carly agrees, gesturing toward the counter.

Felicity hesitates, but Oliver squeezes her hand in a wordless plea. He’s still not ready to let her go yet, and he’s relieved that she follows him to the phone. He dials Dig’s number from memory and leans a hip against the counter. God, he’s tired. And achey.

His eyes drift shut in relief when he hears his sergeant’s voice. “Dig, it’s me.”

There’s a bit of an uproar on the other end, and Oliver knows he’s been placed on speaker. “Queen, where are you? Where’s the bomber?”

“He’s dead,” Oliver answers the most important question first. “He killed the train conductor. Felicity and I are banged up. Can you send a bus to Big Belly Burger?”

There’s a pause, then Dig says, “Why the fuck are you at Big Belly Burger?”

Oliver grins despite himself. “Train crashed through into the abandoned tunnels under the Glades. We used the emergency exit on Lemire.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Oliver can perfectly picture the stunned expression on Tommy’s and Diggle’s faces as they try to make sense of everything that’s happened.

“Sit tight,” Dig orders finally. “We’re on our way.”

When Oliver hands the phone back to Carly, he gives her an apologetic look. “Sorry about this. They’re gonna be here in force.”

Carly just smiles and directs them to a booth. “Sit. Please. And let me get the first aid kit.”

“Actually,” Felicity interjects. “Could I -- I mean, I’m having kind of a day.” She gives her torn dress a pointed look. “Could I get a chocolate shake? Biggest size you’ve got? Extra cherries?”

The pinched worry on Carly’s face eases some. “Sure thing.”

“Oh, and no nuts, please,” Felicity adds. “I’m allergic.”

Oliver lifts his hand. “Make that two?”

Ten minutes later, Dig and Tommy and the others find Oliver and Felicity sitting in a booth, dirty, bruised, bloody, and beaming at each other over milkshakes.

& & &

It takes a couple hours to handle all the _stuff_ that comes along with being kidnapped, witnessing a murder, nearly getting blown up (twice), and surviving a train collision.

First, Diggle uncuffs her and drops the handcuffs into an evidence bag.

Second, the paramedics treat them both. It takes longer this time, as they each have collected quite a few more injuries. In fact, Felicity is pretty sure that on a percentage basis, her body is more bruised than _not_ bruised. She ends up with some painkillers, a smattering of bandages for her cuts, and a soft brace to keep her sore wrist immobilized.

Then Carly ushers her into the small manager’s office and presses yoga pants and a drapey pink tank top into her hands. Felicity thanks her profusely and changes, pouting as she examines her ruined dress. It was a favorite of hers, but it’s ripped beyond repair, so she ends up stuffing it into the trash can. Carly doesn’t have any spare shoes, so Felicity is still barefoot when she emerges. 

And _really_ glad she got that pedicure.

Next, Tommy sits her down in one of the booths to take her statement. Actually, he lets her ramble her non-linear way through things as she remembers them, and asks some follow up questions once she’s (mostly) done. When he flips off the recorder, he waves Carly over.

“Carly, can we get something for Felicity to eat?” 

When Felicity protests that she has no money or credit options available to her at the moment, Tommy brushes off her concerns with a grin. “My treat,” he says. Then he taps one finger on the table. “I forgot to mention -- your phone is currently evidence in the investigation.” 

Felicity brightens. “My phone’s alive?”

Tommy grins at her. “Alive? Sure. But no one seems to be able to get it unlocked.”

She nods slowly. “So why is it in evidence if Wilson never touched it? And as a point of information,” she adds, eyes narrowing, “I can access the contents of that phone from any computer with an internet connection, but the applications I built on it I'd have to rebuild on a new phone. Since I’ve been _helping_ police all day, you should probably just give my phone back to me and I’ll send you whatever files you need from it.”

Tommy blinks. “Did you just threaten to destroy evidence?”

“No, I requested that the police return my property,” she answers. “My only surviving piece of property from this whole insane day,” she adds, warming to the topic. “Because everything else I brought onto that bus is gone, even my _shoes_ , and I spent hours and hours upgrading that phone into the kickass machine that was even _able_ to do the stuff we needed to do to get everyone off the bus safely.”

“Felicity--”

“I’m just saying that I would really appreciate it if you trusted me to help again with this,” she explains, “instead of taking away the last bit of technology I have.”

Tommy looks appropriately chastened as he evaluates her request. “Let me see what I can do.”

She slumps back in the booth in relief. “I can’t tell you how happy it would make me to have Peggy back.”

Tommy mouths “Peggy” and shakes his head in amusement. “You’re something else, Felicity Smoak.”

She cocks her head to the side. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

But Tommy just laughs and slides out of the booth. He heads over to Oliver, who is still walking through things with Diggle. But now that Felicity isn’t distracted by the debrief, she can’t help but notice that Oliver’s eyes cut over to her every few minutes, like he can’t stop checking to make sure she’s still there. 

Each time their gazes catch and hold, she feels that same warm, bubbly excitement.

When Felicity finishes eating, she promptly spaces out, frowning in the vague direction of the window, though she stopped seeing what’s out there a few minutes ago. She lets her mind go mostly blank, thinking through coding options for her new tablet. Because the predictability and austere logic of coding has always soothed her mind.

“Hey,” Oliver greets, sliding into the other side of her booth and placing a plastic tray with food onto the table. He’s got a black SCPD t-shirt on, and it’s a little small for him (though Felicity is not complaining about the way it hugs his body). There’s a bandage on his forehead, and a large gauze patch on his bullet wound.

She feels suddenly shy. “Hi.”

Brow furrowed just a bit, Oliver reaches across the table to take her hand. “Are you okay?”

Her amusement is as genuine as her unease. “I don’t really know how to answer that.”

He nods, his blue eyes warm. “I understand that,” he says, and she’s _sure_ he is fighting back a smile. “How can I help?”

“Help?” she echoes, puzzled. Because her confounded state of mind is at least partially due to Oliver himself and the strange connection that buzzes between them. 

With a half shrug, Oliver takes a small bite of his burger and chews thoughtfully. Once he swallows, he says, “We’re both done here, and I’m pretty sure you’re going to crash soon. I know I will.”

She _is_ feeling lethargic. Plus she just ate. A lot. “Probably,” she admits. “I am pretty tired.”

“Can I give you a lift home?” 

She grins. “Uh, not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but we arrived here together. Via subway collision. So how would you manage that exactly?”

He shrugs, clearly unconcerned with things like reality. “I’ll borrow one of the squad cars.”

Felicity ducks her chin, smiling down at the table. “Already got handcuffed today,” she answers, “and not in the fun, sexy way, so I’ll probably skip being taken somewhere in a police car.”

“Fair enough.” Oliver takes another bite of his burger, and Felicity thinks the conversation is over. It’s not. As soon as he swallows, he says, “Split a cab with me.”

“Oliver...”

“I want to make sure you get home safe,” he tells her. And there is concern and affection and protectiveness in his eyes as he watches her. “No further transportation-related incidents of any kind. Please -- after the day we’ve had, humor me.”

It’s hard to say no when he’s looking at her like that. Once she agrees, Oliver inhales the rest of his meal in impressive fashion. Then he pushes himself upright with a bit of a wince and offers her his hand. She blushes a little and accepts, letting him help her up. 

Instead of letting go, like she expected, Oliver laces their fingers together and brings her to say goodbye to a bemused Tommy and a still-mostly-unreadable Diggle. Tommy grabs Oliver’s tactical vest off the floor and hands it over. “You should probably just wear this all the time,” Tommy comments, “since you’re more of a trouble magnet than a chick magnet these days.”

Oliver glowers at his friend. “Tommy,” he grits out.

Tommy just smirks and turns to Felicity. “I have a present for you,” he says, then pulls her cellphone out of his pocket and offers it to her with a flourish.

Felicity grins at him. “My hero,” she says, holding the phone to her chest in the closest thing to a hug she can manage.

Beside her Oliver gives a disgruntled, “Hey!” and she bumps her shoulder into his. Because they both know he’s the one who saved her life today. And she maybe kind of saved his a little, too. 

Before they step away, Diggle places his hand lightly on her upper arm and smiles at her. “Sorry for what you went through today, Felicity, but I’m glad to have met you.”

And then Oliver is tugging her away, and they’re on the sidewalk again, hand in hand. Before Felicity can try to grapple with the weirdness (or the weird _rightness_ ) of this scenario, Oliver is ushering her into a cab.

“Where to?”

Felicity opens her mouth to rattle off her address, and remembers she can’t go home. Or at least can’t get _into_ her home. No keys. Her friend Iris has a spare set, but she’s at work right now, and the spare keys live in the small desk in Iris’s entryway. The thought of trying to work those logistics is just too much for Felicity’s tired brain.

“I can call a locksmith,” Oliver offers, then lowers his voice and taps the tactical vest leaning against his knees. “Or use the lock picks.”

Felicity grins and tells the cabbie her address. The ride doesn’t take very long, but she finds herself leaning her head on Oliver’s shoulder anyway, her eyes drifting shut. It’s not even three in the afternoon and she is just _wiped_.

The cab rolling to a stop wakes her, and she jerks upright. “What?” She blinks at her apartment building. “Oh.”

Oliver asks the cabbie to wait and slides out of the taxi behind her.

She’s feeling that weird tension again, and because she’s _her_ , it bubbles out of her in a torrent of words. “I need to cancel all my credit cards,” Felicity says as she leads him up the walkway to her door. “Or I guess I don’t need to cancel them -- just order replacements. And get a new driver’s license. And a new wallet.” She frowns. “And keys. A keychain -- and, you know, that’s really annoying, because where am I going to get a Red Sox keychain around here?” she asks, coming to a halt in front of her door. She turns to Oliver. “I went to college in Boston, so...”

He’s smiling down at her in this just unfairly attractive way. Somehow the injuries and bandages just make him more roguishly handsome.

“Sorry,” she apologizes softly. “You may have noticed that I talk a lot.”

“I have noticed that,” he answers, then gestures towards her door. “May I?”

“Please.” She steps aside and watches as he kneels with a grimace. “Did they give you a brace for that knee?”

“Nah, they got me an appointment with an orthopedist tomorrow instead,” he answers absently. His hands are graceful as he manipulates the lock picks. She tries very, very hard not to think about other applications for that kind of careful strength.

“You don’t have to work tomorrow?” she blurts, more to derail her thoughts than to get an answer.

“Administrative leave,” he explains, then grins at the telltale tumbling of the deadbolt releasing. He tries the door, pushing back to his feet when it opens. 

Felicity is watching him carefully. “Leave? Is that because...?”

Oliver nods, his expression sobering. “Mandatory leave and counseling because I killed in the line of duty.”

Felicity feels her eyes go wide and she reaches for his hand without even thinking about it. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“For what?”

She makes a face. “I guess it’s weird to _apologize_ for getting kidnapped at gunpoint, but if I hadn’t, you probably wouldn’t have had to--” She stops, swallows hard, shrugs. “Do that.”

Squeezing her fingers, he takes a small step closer. “He had you and he was going to hurt you,” he says, as if that’s an answer.

And maybe it is, considering the way he’s looking at her, and the way her stomach is doing that swooping thing in response. They stare at each for a long, loaded moment. “Well, thank you,” she blurts out, “I hope you get to do some relaxing stuff during your time off.”

Oliver glances at her bruised throat and the finger marks on her bicep. “You’re going to be sore for a couple days, too. Can you take some time off?”

Felicity considers that. She’s _already_ sore, so she can’t imagine how awful tomorrow will be. Plus, once she gets some sleep, she’s pretty sure she’s going to process her way through an entire pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. “I think I’ll take the rest of the week, yeah.”

Oliver glances down, then back up at her. “Felicity, would you like to have a very low-key dinner with me tomorrow night? With ice packs and painkillers and comfort food?”

Felicity realizes she’s gaping at him and tells herself to chill. “You mean like a date? A _date_ date?”

He stumbles a little over his words. “Well, the implication with dinner being that--” He stops himself, eyes closing briefly, and takes a deep breath. He’s much calmer when he meets her gaze again. “A date, yes, though I’ve been told that relationships that start under intense circumstances never last,” he adds with a smile that’s dangerously close to a smirk.

Felicity feels a giddy sort of happiness in her chest. She doesn’t mean to say it, but it slips out. “Guess we’ll have to base it on sex then.”

Oliver’s eyes go comically wide, and then his fingers are on her hip and his mouth crashes down onto hers. She’s feeling bold and lets her palm skate across his ribs, down to his abdomen. He’s got one hand on the back of her head, and he tangles his fingers through her hair. 

“Oliver,” she says, pressing her palm against his chest. “Oliver.”

He pulls back, looking ego-boostingly dazed. “Oh,” he says. “I--” Then he grins at her and shrugs, the hand that had been on her waist dipping daringly low on her hip.

“Oliver?”

“Yeah?” he asks, and he's smiling at her, this bright, sunshine-y smile, like they haven't spent the entire morning getting banged up and threatened and nearly killed.

She studies him for a moment -- this incredibly brave, incredibly _hot_ , incredibly kind man who's looking back at her with wide, guileless blue eyes. And then she grins. “Go pay the cabbie.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all of y’all who so enthusiastically embraced this insanity. :) I’m a little overwhelmed by the comments here (and, predictably, behind on answering them, sorry!). I only hope the final chapter lived up to your expectations.


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